I've wanted to write, but when the sun shines, and I have to choose between going home to write and taking the girls to the zoo, I find myself surrounded at night by sun-kissed girls, hair curled with humidity, dusty feet, and mouths turned up in a content and exhausted smile. I think I've chosen well.
Today the sky is gray and wet, although the sun is trying to break through. The air is muggy. I've resisted putting on the air-conditioner. No babies. No pregnant women. I can suck it up. After all, it's only May.
We finally got the last of the school letters in the mail. My dream school? We are on the wait-list at #337. We received two offers, neither we are accepting. As my friend Danielle said, it's time to roll with the punches.
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I've been thinking back to those literature classes in high school, and how I did far more work for those than I did for any of mine in college, even as an English major. We would fill three inch binders thick with research from the University of Dayton library all day Saturday, making copies at Kinko's at midnight on Sunday. T.J. Eckleburg, I still remember you as Thomas Jefferson, looking at what the United States had become, watching us in our sin and frivolity.
I spent so much time in high school and college surrounded in words. They hemmed me in on all sides, guarding my heart. When I remember that time, I can never decide if I wish I had spent more time lost in those books and in my words that I scratched out, moved by what I had been reading, or if I should have spent more time living outside the printed page.
My husband took me on the absolutely most amazing date a few weeks ago to celebrate 13 years of being together. Our favorite restaurant complete with celebrity chef sighting and then the Great Gatsby.
And I held my breath, tears rolling down my face, as the words tattooed in my mind found themselves spoken:
He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it.
He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther....
And one fine morning -
So we beat on, boats against the current,
borne back ceaselessly into the past.