Today was a nice day. I sat in Dolores Park with friends during the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence's 29th annual Easter party. The sun was high and brighter than it's been in months, it seems. It was warm and exhausting. I saw folks I didn't expect and others I figured would be winding their way through the throngs of half-naked bunnies and bonnets.
Now at home for the last few hours, I've been staring at my computer screen with a mixture of fascination and repulsion, reading essays for reference in the anti-oppression training manual I'm writing, reading blog entries about how Reverend Jeremiah Wright is being crucified for saying things that a lot of black people feel--and thought a lot of white people knew we felt. I'm reading articles about 4,000 dead American soldiers in Iraq and about a Kurdish Iraqi translator who was denied a green card because he was a member of the Kurdish army that tried to overthrow Saddam Hussein years ago, and our government considers that terrorist activity. I'm reading about how the investigation that busted Governor Eliot Spitzer is looking more and more like a Republican hit.
And I'm staring at a blank document in my word processor that should be filled with all kinds of things--a cover letter for submitting a short story to a literary journal; a discussion of the intersectionality of oppression; an essay about the way I learned to talk about race in my family; my ever-evolving thoughts on why I some day want to be a mother; a poem about the way I love.
But I'm not writing those things right now, just a summary of the thoughts swirling in my sun-and-champagne addled brain as I take a deep breath and prepare to go to bed and try hard not to make dangerous decisions on a Sunday night until I've let those thoughts run their course, even if that course isn't on a piece of paper.