New chapters, closing chapters
New chapters, closing chapters
When the summer refuses to let fall in but we're going ahead
After a week of sweltering days and sipping nothing but iced beverages, it feels strangely right to be sitting in front of my computer, writing this down as I hear the rain fall outside and an ever-so-slight breeze comes through the window (still not quite there for scented candles, but soon, my loves). I put on one of my favorite playlists from my dissertation era and onward we go.
The past week was also the first week of classes in both my old school and where my partner teaches. For the past 9 years, the first Tuesday after Labor Day has been “the first day of fall,” an event that consuming American pop culture had made me vaguely aware of (*insert here Rory Gilmore telling her grandmother’s maid that she was a rebel for wearing white after Labor Day*).
Many posts about the first day of school, about coming back to campus or the classroom, lots of nostalgia about the excitement and, yes, even the routine.1 I wish I had better visual records of those early days, but discovering a new city, a new university system, and, in a way, a new me, was a lot to take in. I’m sure there are several photos of a cup of coffee with a book and notes next to it somewhere in a drive, but only some of them made it into my old feed.
In grad school, I had a love-hate relationship with summer. It meant a break from routine and it also meant, during coursework, a time of diving strictly into research mode (and, with some luck, going abroad and metaphorically but also physically diving into the archives). But it also meant being untethered, being mostly away from immediate support systems, and experiencing a strange sense of time that was not kept by weekly meetings but still ticked out ruthlessly as we barrelled towards the fall, the new semester, the next round of things. I loved being away from my desk and surrounded by charters, chronicles, testaments, all in my time, with the occasional (and much-needed) breaks to just go outside, complain about the heat, and have a cup of iced coffee or tea.2
So, new beginnings. But also, weirdly, closing cycles? One of my closest friends from grad school defended his dissertation this past week. I’m sure it was a very momentous occasion for him, but it also made me think about how this was the last defense among a certain group of friends I made there. I’m sure every single one of them is out in the world doing and being their very best, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss our get-togethers around Trader Joe’s snacks and wine.
I also met with a friend (who I won’t call a “work friend” because she’s a friend who I happened to meet at work) and she mentioned an upcoming party that, were it a different moment, I would have loved to attend. But I think this has been for me a moment to let that place be what it was—a period with a clear beginning and end—and treasure the things and people I love who, by chance, are connected to it. Being away from the city for a whole month right after my contract ended really helped me realize that a clear-cut separation from “what was” was necessary, but this is an ongoing process rather than a finished task.
While I had all these things in my head for the last several days, I came across Sayaka Murata’s instagram post about Freeman’s last number being titled: Conclusions.
I am not an avid reader of new writing anthologies and journals, but for some reason back in 2021 I came across Freemans’s: Change when I was getting back into reading after a long slump and have kept going after previous volumes whenever I found them on the shelves of my local bookstore (I’m currently missing 3 of the published titles and still on the hunt for them). Earlier this year, I read Home when I was dealing with the imminent end of my contract and related feelings of displacement and questions of belonging (while also being excited about traveling to Rio and visiting that home). So it felt particularly serendipitous to see the last volume, on conclusions, while I sat with my iced tea and ruminated on closing chapters.
I’m off to finish prepping Sunday lunch now. It’s nice enough outside that turning on the oven to roast tomatoes doesn’t feel like an exercise in masochism. Summer might be finally in its last breath. I await fall with open arms.
currently reading: The Complete Shorter Fiction of Virginia Woolf, ed. Susan Dick; Mister N, Najwa Barakat (trans. Luke Leafgren)
currently craving: sweater weather; pumpkin spice creamer for home-made lattes
Big shoutout to Haley from Closely Reading, who shared her early grad school photos and vids on instagram and made me immediately jealous that I never got things nearly as well-registered as she did.
All of this was, evidently, shattered and upended with the pandemic, but that’s a subject for another time, maybe.
I *love* these reflections. And I am not sure I had as much well-registered as maybe it seems!! I am always wishing I had logged more, filmed more, intentionally remembered more. 💕 I think we find so much richness in looking back. Which filters we used, what attention we paid. I loved reading about what you’re missing and what you’re remembering.