i spent eight hours straight in one chair, in front of one computer, typing one paper. while i was so absorbed an entire working day absorbed other people in other places. jamie and lana prepare for an ani evening at 9:30. the blocks come out at swat. (i search for my name even though i know it's not there, and more logically try to determine where on the surrealist donkey that is housing to pin my tail.) my mother gets increasingly angry about the middle east and encourages my brother and me to rally. my laundry card fixes itself. a representative of the swat history department writes to notify me, in what could have been my third morale-crushing email in three days, that as no one in the history department remembers talking to me about my proposed special major, they can't validate it.
before this twilight-zone week started, if you'da asked me i'da said with reasonable confidence, i have a job for the summer, i have a place to live next year, and i have a major. now i survey what's left of my certainties: fluttery pinata remnants scattered on the floor after drunken demons with hockey sticks have done with it. the power of three days; of eight hours.
the power of will: the email did not upset me. i responded to it and ended up having a pleasant interaction with the woman who sent it. as she clarified, i shouldn't worry about this now; it's not an emergency. it's not that i don't have a major, it's that i don't have a major ... exactly. not rejected, not accepted. okay. if there's one certainty i can be certain of, it's that there are no certainties you can be certain of. of that i'm certain. certainly.