there is no red couch. there are no books on their way from Canada (and i suspect there won't be, for a while).
and there has been -- as you may have noticed -- no writing whatsoever.
even if it is tiny and often-annoying -- i have a home.
even if i have used it all of three times -- i have an oven.
even if it is still propped up on a suitcase -- my father's painting is out. it is just as beautiful as the day he bought it for me, from wherever he was in this world or the next or neither, the week of my thirtieth birthday, the week after he died.
even if it is still not-quite limoncello -- there are several bottles' worth of sunshine-about-to-be-born, in my back closet.
the spices are all in a row. the cat is convinced. and i get to keep teaching Intercultural Communications.
i also get to work towards working with people who not only know -- but actually *care* -- about my professional experience and background and intelligence.
maybe they will even see this professional experience and background and intelligence as reasons to hire me.
(as opposed to say, hiring me because they felt like taking a "risk," or "trusting" a mutual friend, or doing me a "favor"...)
[Via Tibullo, Roma]
[mercoledý 30 aprile 2008 ore 14:08:07] [¶]