Renewed

I stand corrected. Law school can be creative. I know this because Ms. J sent me a most humorous email in response to my question about trusts and estates.

Assuredly.

Inspired

I am not inspired. Law school, despite its intellectual rigor, does not inspire me. Perhaps it's true that inspiration is not the point, but somewhere along the way I lost my passion. Passion that pushed me to build a house, quite literally, out of nothing. Passion that moved me to learn for the pleasure of learning, and nothing more.

I've been thinking about passion lately because I discovered some old friends who have themselves embarked on pilgrimages of passion. Thanks to facebook and Myspace, I now count a soul singer, a folk singer, a hip-hop artist, a jazz violinist, a classical violinist, and a children's choir director among my childhood friends. Their works are earnest and sophisticated; their talent is pure. We all were musicians when we were kids - but somehow I let my ache for beauty become an ache for... nothing.

Somewhere along the line I folded. To my credit, my surrender was not completely because of creature comforts - I just wasn't that good a violinist. My bleakness, then, must be a result of envy, too. I envy these artists and their talents, I envy their courage and creativity.

This issue is of particular relevance because my better half also has found that law school has not inspired him. He's had success in law school, but the exercise has grown hollow. He is lucky enough to have something that does inspire him, however, and I delight in his delight.

Apple lust

Today I touched a MacBook Air. I held it in my hands. I lifted it up and down and I delighted in its unbearable lightness. I half-expected Yael Naim to start singing in the backgrouund as I ran my finger across its satin mousepad. La la la la la la …

I do not usually lust after material things, and the Captain will attest to that. But this, this was different.

It was sublime.

Mortified

Earlier this week I went to office hours. In addition to my usual class confusion ("So...this basic rule we covered months ago..."), I also had some questions about the long-term. Namely, I wanted to know how mobile I would be if I entered a particular practice area, because I'm not entirely sure I want a lifetime in San Diego. (Don't hate.)

She gave me the usual spiel, how when I hit my third year as an associate I'll be tremendously marketable, but then she suggested applying to LLM programs in parts of the country where I would want to spend a lifetime.

I almost left the room.

Thing is, I've already done my time: two years' MPA, three years' JD. Do I really need to add three more letters? I didn't voice these objections to her, but I did offer another: I didn't think my grades would be appealing to any school worth going to. She countered, "What do you have, a 2.2?" I gratefully shook my head, but she wanted my actual number. She then proceeded to shout, "'[Number]?! What's so bad about a [number]?"

(Uh, lots of things are wrong with [number]. Especially if you keep shouting it down the hall like that.)

Still, it was nice to have her vote of confidence.

Reader #3

The last several days have been full of surprises! Today I discovered not two, but three, people read this blog.

Hello, Elite Racer! And thanks!

Surprise

I recently started studying for my exams (don't judge). Today I found an old file for one of my classes; the file was called "Working Outline." Expecting to find two or three pages of nothing, I opened the file to discover instead a detailed, color-coded document covering the first several weeks of the course.

News to me, too.

Bag lady

It's that time of the semester again: the time when I'm so worried about all the work that needs to get done that I can't decide which books to take when.

So I walk around with all of them in a collection of large bookbags. It's hot.