termtime
I scribble indiscriminately in the margins of books. I've a running fantasy that if I ever have children, they can follow the thought trails I've left behind in the books I've read and (if they are anything like me) leave trails of their own. this is an astonishingly narcissistic fantasy, and one I don't suppose will be fulfilled. indulge me.
(I of course have other reasons for marginalia - active reading, necessary annotation, etc. but the cognitive breadcrumb fantasy is pervasive).
in other news, I am settled into my new living quarters after much administrative flappery. it astonishes me that one day I'll acclimatize entirely to having cobblestones under my feet and vast airy monoliths of gothic architecture hovering delicately in the edges of my vision - that cambridge will become familiar. but for now it's enough to drink in the impossibly green lawns and old brick cemented by centuries, and the buttresses and bridges arched in gentle rictus over the cam, and the fact that in every coffee shop in town that I've been to in the past four days, there has been at least one lone figure curled into the corner over a cup of something hot, and a book of something literary. there is a space for me here; I feel less need to carve it out. it's more of a nook I think I'll gentle settle into - like satin bedsheets billowing down onto the mattress, like coming home, or something.