It’s November 17 (Nov. 17 for those on AP style), and I am currently sitting outside, wearing a t-shirt, and feeling a little bit warm. Ah, Kansas, how I adore the way you resist weather norms. I’m having a pretty blah day today — in Brit Lit I spent my time re-reading “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” which continues to be my favorite poem in the world (probably due to lack of exposure), and in Italian we discussed the “sense of the family” (il senso della famiglia) in Italy v. America. That’s always an interesting talk. The closest I could come, in Italian, to saying what I wanted to say about the differences between American and Italian thoughts on family was that in America, I think generally the sense of the individual is greater or equal to the sense/importance of the family — leading to the whole discussion of why elderly people live with their relatives in Italy and in retirement homes here. I was thinking of my grandparents, who tell us all the time that, when they can no longer care for themselves, they want to go to the Sunshine Home (that’s really it’s name) in Buhler. They want this because they don’t want to be a burden to anyone, and I think they also want some degree of autonomy. But it was an interesting mind game to sit in class and wonder what it would be like if, in twenty years, I had my mother move in with me, or my father.
It’s so lovely out here. Too bad I’m not getting any work done.
What this doesn’t include is the 2,700 odd words I put down last night to complete my Fiction Writing assignment, due Thursday. It’s done and yet… it’s not done. I like the voice but so far I’m not sure it has enough of a point. Hm.