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Thursday, February 25, 2010


People are fond of saying life never stops. At least, I've heard a great many self-designated sages utter some variation on that theme, especially since I made it through college. Granted, life proceeds despite our best efforts to slow it down, no inertia takes place within this Heracliton river. Few will dispute, however, that the period following college is a peculiar kind of interstice, a life before life, so to speak. It's a place where everything seems swelling with potential but hasn't been given an actual shape yet. As hopelessly juvenile as this all sounds, my imagination fails when I try to put it any other way.

Heather has been out of work for seven months. Seven long months in which we subsist on a grocery store paycheck and my earnings from a weekly blog. They've been hard, but I know we'll look back on them fondly. I look at our box of an apartment and it already has the nostalgic quality of a memory; we'll never see this place again. I know I shall miss it. I miss most things that recede into the past because I know that they're now inaccessible, and I can see everything about them that mattered most. As Kierkegaard says, "Life is lived forwards and understood backwards."

Well, as is often the case, Heather received several call-backs all at once. Long story short, she's landed an amazing job. One which meets all of our needs and more. She effectively makes more than twice what I do annually. That's a rather humiliating note to sound, but my pride for her overshadows it.

Graduate school is the next step for me. I'm excited but it feels like one more intermediate stage, another purgatorial hill to ascend. All of this hyperbole is starting to make me blush, but I'm using it to illustrate how much like children we still feel at the moment. My plan is to study literature because philosophy is just too serious for me. I will always owe the beginning of intellectual odyssey--maybe excursion is more accurate--to Kierkegaard, Camus, Sartre et all. but I know I'll never escape the shadows of Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, O'Connor, McCarthy, Bloom, Steiner--I could go on but I won't.

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