Nov. 29th, 2011

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Reading Virginia Woolf - reading her fiction, reading her diaries - I get it. Lily Briscoe thinks of the structure of her painting like a mantra (like a prayer) and I get it. "I am frightfully contented these last few days, by the way. I don't quite understand it." I think I wrote that earlier this month. It's strange and terrifying and comforting in all the ways that loving Sylvia Plath was and is.

I had this long, delicious conversation with a professor this morning about how to live in the world. How to know things, believe things, understand things and still live in the world. I think it might be a choice. I'm going back on Thursday to continue the conversation and am sort of kind of compiling a list of all the things that I still have left to learn before this three semester relationship fades away. So much. (I miss her already.)

It snowed today. Really, truly snowed. It's beautiful and it's my favorite. Happy.

I have this really unbelievably healthy, functional friendship with my best friend right now. She is one of those solid, real things in my life and I just feel so supremely lucky.

I'm cautiously hopeful. I'm content; I don't quite understand it.

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November 2011

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