Weird.

My sister's assortment of makeup jars at least make for interesting reading while I'm brushing my teeth. "Dream matte mousse foundation"? Who dreams about foundation?

Then again, last night I dreamed my environmental justice professor was dating the president of Haverford College. When I woke up I was really glad I wouldn't have to think of a polite way to ask if she knew he was already married.

What we carry with us

I've graduated from college and feel oddly homeless. The hardest part is leaving the co-op, knowing I'll never see most of my housemates again. What makes it easier is the feeling that I carry parts of them with me. There's some comfort in drinking from the cup Becky threw on the potter's wheel or wearing the sweater that belonged to Max. The way I spice the dinner came from Sissi; the way I think about art came from Jenny; the way I finger the penny whistle came from Jeff. I can't know what parts of myself the others are carrying to California and Austria and New Hampshire, but I trust that I do go with them.

If we were like the seeds of a dandelion that had grown gold and big and eventually turned white, this weekend was the puff of air that sent us scattering in the wind. I feel dizzy and lost now, but we'll land in new places and fill the field with new flowers.

A boat of one's own

People who teach nineteenth-century literature love to talk about homosocial spaces. Men had the military, the courts, the government, the businesses, the clubs, the bars, the Masons, most schools, you name it. Women basically had the home and eventually the beauty parlor.

Except now . . . there's Bryn Mawr. On Monday I was reminded this of how totally beautiful that can be and how old it can get. Part of the week before graduation is apparently the seniors and a bunch of professors going on a riverboat cruise, which ended with people dancing. If gyration-type dance is going to happen, I definitely like it better with all women. I've heard there are sketchy women, but I've never met any who hold a candle to your average sketchy man.

I looked out at the crowd of writhing women in little black dresses thought: we finally get our own. This is what Virginia Woolf wanted for women instead of getting chased off the grass at Oxbridge. We're eating sashimi instead of prunes and custard. And not only that, but there are hardly any male spaces left.

Then two of the professors (one male, one female) started ballroom dancing. And I would have swapped nearly everyone on that boat for a man with a decent lead. I guess I can't have things both ways.

Valediction

Dear John Donne,

You know how you wrote the poem that's practically the anthem of long-distance relationships? You know, the one about how you're so pure and inter-assurèd of the mind that you care less eyes, lips and hands to miss?

I think it's total rubbish. I bet you missed her like crazy. Unless you and I have absolutely nothing in common.

Julia

Hurrah for the life of a country girl

My life is turning somersaults right now, but I'm beginning to think I can handle it.

In happier news, it's May! Up at dawn this morning dancing Morris in Belmont Park. When I was sneaking in to work (only 45 minutes late for my shift) a girl in the garden behind the library presented me with a sprig of some kind of white sweet-smelling flowers. We sang the Jean Ritchie maying song, making each of us the first person the other had ever met who could sing it.

So happy May Day. Or in America, so that no one mistakes this for an international labor holiday, happy Law Day and Loyalty Day. If that doesn't make you want to gag, I don't know what will.