Because of the miserable condition of the universe, my parents aren't coming this weekend, and propose to come next weekend instead, which is my last weekend in the city and already chock-a-block, thick, full, a real fatty strained Balkan yogurt of a weekend. So I might go to North Bay tomorrow with my brother and skip da work on Monday - that way if I don't spend every blessed minute with them next weekend I won't feel like the world's crappiest daughter. The only advantages to this plan are that I get to see the Shostakovitch dance spectacular tonight that Dale wrote about awhile ago, and that if I don't go back with my brother tomorrow I suppose I can pack a little bit.
I already finished (more or less) putting my papers in order last night, including a whole whack of journals and notes from my time in Piemonte and Paris, which was a little bit controversial until I settled into grad school. I couldn't help but enjoy the arrogance of the girl who wrote them, the pig-headed, angry arrogance of a girl who hadn't had such an opportunity to be pig-headedly arrogant before that, and enjoy reading such immediate accounts of such baffling behaviour. I think even at the time I was aware of saving up anecdotes and cautionary tales, and that eventually I was going to have to stop being a holy terror and start putting experiences in perspective and approach the world with authority instead of balls-out, snatch-first. There was such an element of exploration in those days that felt more dangerous than now.
Things are different now because I'm not quite so much of a bitch - I know how to protect myself from being a bitch better - and reading those notes wasn't quite like reading the notes of a stranger, but there was a divide, almost like I used to be a character I'd made up. The fun thing was I liked a lot of what I was reading - not necessarily the moral qualities of the character, but how I was writing. That was fun.