My portfolio is due Thursday, and I’m feeling good about it. The foundation is there, and, even though I still have about 8 pages of essay and 13 artifact write-ups, I am satisfied with my progress. I’ve accepted that this week will be one devoted to long (often late) hours writing. My goal is to finish complete drafts by dawn so I can take a little time away from the thing before revising. Knowing me, I’ll be about half a day behind this goal, but I’m not troubled by the prospect.
I write best by midnight oil, so I slept in and am getting a slow start to my day. Spring has come back to Philadelphia, and, with it, a sense of connection to my neighbors. Like the tight clusters of tree buds that have opened into vivacious bloom, my neighbors have once again opened aural connections into their worlds. Our windows have shed their winter plastic and started breathing again with the lilting sighs of paper curtains. My neighbor to the west is sending echoes of Radiohead to bounce lightly up the brick courtyard. My neighbors to the east are fighting—again. I could crawl into their kitchen from my living room window if I were really committed, and yet it’s the place they always choose to try to talk it out one more time. I know eves dropping is an impertinent habit—I should probably start blasting “We Can Work It Out” as a little encouragement or, you know, shut the window—but it’s one that the actor in me has a hard time abandoning. My neighbors’ interactions are tragic, raw, and so incredibly human; I ache for them.
They’ve taken a break. Or called it quits—it’s hard to tell. Which should be my cue to get back to work.
On a final note, I’m still unemployed. So, once I turn in my portfolio, prepare for my triumphant return to blogging, ye wayward reader.
All my best,
Em
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