Another week, another letter

Friday afternoon, I was on my way home when I suddenly realized something important: as of this time next year, my car will be paid off. The extra $200 a month could be put to good use.

I called Stef with this information, and announced that if I saved this extra money, she and I could plan a trip to Europe. She treated these plans with the utmost of seriousness ("Uh, ok"), and we hung up.

I flurried in the door, shouting to Erin as I knew by the radio and the fumes that she was painting the kitchen. I dropped my bags ( how do I accumulate bags during the work day?) and stopped to chat for a minute, debating whether or not to take a Friday night disco nap.

I went to check the mail for my insurance billing, and found two envelopes of regular size. I flipped past the bank statement to reveal a DePaul envelope. So soon?! I frowned at its size and yelled at Erin to announce its arrival.

I carried it to my room, realizing that although it was only a standard-measuring envelope, it held more than one piece of paper: very positive. I opened it and read, shocked, that the English department had recommended me for DePaul's Master of Arts in Writing. I screamed. Erin screamed.

I rushed into the kitchen to stare at her, standing on a step ladder, grey paint on her leg. "Erin! I got in!" "I know, I'm so excited for you!" "But Erin, I had plans! Plans..." I thought about the call to Stef, the comfortable money and living situation I found myself in and pursuing, the ideas I'd been forming about teaching. I thought about living in Chicago, about uprooting and buying things like dishes and beds, about massive debts and eating Ramen noodles.

Then, I thought again about living in Chicago, about seeing concerts and seeing art. I thought about public transit and outdoor festivals. I thought about being in school again, about living for the sole purpose of learning and writing. Plans change.

I went on to a night full of NCAA basketball and Pale Ale. On my way home, I realized something. "Hey, my writing got in." I smiled, alone in my car. Not me, my writing. I'd be fine.


Entirely unrelated:
Read more from the NYTimes about pop music. This article? Discusses what they hail as "the end of the album." To my mind, the album will never die. Nothing can replicate the feeling of listening to one artist's idea of the way an hour should unfold. Listen to OK Computer, then tell me the album is dead.