This all led to me perusing the Peet's website for a while (do you know that all of their coffee and tea is kosher?), because I had already read enough news stories on enough news websites to keep me sated for at least an hour. This as I drank my newly purchased twinings jasmine green tea, which was not as good as the tea they sell in the science center (which, among other things, has fabric-y bags), but still yummy.
No more talk of tea. Rather, let me tell you that I'm going to New York this weekend for a whole slew of reasons. First and foremost to visit my sophster and meet her boy. Close runner-up reasons have to do with Big and Expensive and Popular Art: a visit to the new MOMA (sponsored by Target if I go on Friday evening, a fact that we plan to take full advantage of but my god, people, what kind of world has this become when free days at museums are sponsored by corporations? actually, I think it's really good that they are using their money for something like this, which can make art and architecture available to everyone regardless of income... but it's still really weird). Also, Christo's Gates in Central Park, which I have been incredibly excited about ever since seeing the pictures in the New Yorker last year. It opens on Saturday and the city is bracing itself for a rush of off season tourism, which I think is also really cool. And it's going to be so incredible; part of what's so cool about him is the sheer size of what he does. Sublime, much? Not exactly in this case, but there is something to be said for the majesty of lining all of the paths of central park with vibrantly colored cloth gates. And the contrast against the (okay, not so cold after all) February surroundings! And the interiority that will be created like a tunnel of lush trees in springtime!
I also have an informal interviewy-networky sort of meeting with someone at Scholastic who my mom knows, and then with someone else who he knows. So, black pants will be brought and worn. I keep wavering wildly between the confidence that this summer will work out and everyone will realize how wonderful I am based on my sparse resume and my overly cheerful cover letters, and a self-deprecating assurance that there are a thousand people out there exactly like me and there's no way this will work out and I'll die alone in my dorm room eaten by squirrels, not to be found for days because all of my friends are too busy having sex and doing abstract algebra.
The point of all of this is to say that I have to go write about sublimity, now, and how the traditional Burkeian (not a real word!) conception of the sublime is played with by one Ms. Anna Barbauld, to the extent that god is recast as an approachable figure, and birth and death and dawn become conflated into one glorious image of the possibility of knowing.
Or something along those lines.