Waking up in the middle of the night, heart pounding from the vestiges of just another really effed up dream, was only the beginning of one seemingly endless, unimaginably desolate Monday.
I covet Sundays--specifically, that ethereal space in time, early on in the morning, where everything has a sense of rightness to it--I covet them and cling onto their coattails for as long as I possibly can until I have to admit defeat, complete readings and assignments, and prepare for a day of running around. I'm lucky enough to have an easy Monday, in terms of classes. With any luck, by the time Cultural Anthropology lets out and the F bus meanders its way into the circle where I am standing, anxiously waiting and vying for a seat, I'll get home around three.
The usual lack of enthusiasm for Mondays has matured into a full-blown grimace. The constant drip and drizzle of rain has turned the bald spots in the Pangaea of snow into small, fragmented streaks of white against the dreary grey of the day. Sharing my lover's grief over losing his grandfather this past week, a man I had never had the pleasure of meeting, and bearing witness to the attending priest's incredibly touching eulogy, seems to have followed me through the weekend to today. Remembering the floral smell and paltry feel of the funeral home, the frailty of his grandmother's body as I embraced her in a hug, the empowering quality of the voices carrying the grief of the situation in unison during a performance of "O Lord My God", I feel so powerfully for his oma
, a woman I have only just met. I hurt for the long-lasting love that has now been splintered by the reality of death and--selfishly--I'm terrified at the thought of finding myself in her position. It's not a fear of death, but the fear of the gaping hole that follows death's footsteps.
Now on my first full week of classes for the spring semester, I am doing fairly well and staying afloat, following the ebb and flow of reading assignments being flung my way from all directions. To those who find themselves in a similar situation, I'd love to hear from you in particular: How do you personally cope with an "enthusiastic" workload? What are your reading and studying habits like?
I'm just about done reading through the first pages of Cuban blogger Yoani Sanchez's Generacion Y
, a series of posts that I've been eating up with gusto and have seemed to only add to my slight sense of melancholia. With deadlines approaching and the ever-looming presence of finances, I feel confined and terribly worried with what the following days will bring. In the midst of this dreary Monday evening, I will be reading Boule de Suif
, memorizing as many African countries as I possibly can, and fretting over the possibility of losing what I consider to be an old friend: the maturation of my education.