There is a nice little pool outside my office door. I recall thinking late one night that the thing would kill me before it ever became a reality. My excavated yard had metamorphosed into a mud pit, transformed by a malevolent deluge, and I was down, sinking into the sucking miasma, my flashlight lifted to the heavens, afraid that my corpse might be found in the morning’s muck.
Turns out, all I had to do was sit up: The mud was barely a foot deep.
But that sense of inundation, of being caught in a vortical force that I could not escape, that became my operating mode as I pursued a degree in Women’s Studies for the past 18 months. [Read more…]