Then again

I went to the ICA yesterday, with a friend of mine. We met on a train into the city and caught the subway. I took the Silver Line for the first time, spoke without thinking. I attempted to experience the art I saw instead of simply looking. I asked if we could see Nantucket from where we were. I didn't finish my ice cream. I wrote a poem.
Tomorrow, I will catch another train into Boston for the first day of my fellowship. I don't know what I'll wear. There was a meeting on Friday for the program, to go over the next few weeks and what will happen and how. I sat my mother and I in the sunlight. I introduced myself when it was my turn. We got smoothies and went out to dinner.
The more I learn about the fellowship, the more overwhelmed I am. The building is beautiful and Boston is beautiful and the people are beautiful and we're going to be doing things and writing things and it's happening to me. I'm part of it. I earned my place in it. That is the most difficult thing for me to come to terms with. It is difficult because I make it, similar to most other things. I don't like the way I'm writing this. I never let myself go back and change anything, not these parts.
I went running with my sister a few mornings ago. I'd like to start doing it every other day, early enough that people won't see me, late enough for the sun to have risen. I've been reading more. Along with this review, I'm also beginning to put together a review for Chuck Carlise's Casual Insomniac, and I'm nearly finished with Siobhan Vivian's The List. I don't when I'll actually get around to writing about these books. I may go on a boat tomorrow. I get seasick. I love the ocean.
I've started writing in a journal. I never finish notebooks. It's a habit. I stole this one from a basket in school. It has no lines. My handwriting is sloppy and, because I'm left-handed, I smudge each line as I make my way across it. But I'm doing it, and I'm liking it, and that's why.