the fog rolling in and the smell of the sea
So I’m thinking that I should update my LJ every day with
the Current Plan of Demuth’s Future. Or
maybe every hour. People could take
bets on which Plan will actually occur.
There has been a lot of communication chez moi. This means I don’t get enough sleep, because the communication comes in the form of phone calls from people who have forgotten about time zones. 5am from Nigeria, midnight from the Yukon. The latter is from an old friend who at least isn’t calling me from jail this time, but has attained a level of inebriation that even the most dedicated college student cannot attain. The conversation, which lasts an hour and a half, is singularly awful. It is like raw place.
In Iowa, for the first time in my life, I discovered what it is like to not agree with ones parents. This is perhaps indicative of my suspended development; now I angst about my father, in my twenties. But what am I to do; he believes my education is a failure unless I conclude that anyone who believes in any form of afterlife is stupid and wrong. I tend to limit my pronouncements of stupidity and wrongness to my own work, for the former, and gross transgressions of ethics, for the latter. The shit in-between is not my concern.
I am back in Providence, where I write thesis from 8:30am to 5:30pm and then apply to jobs after supper. This, of course, is completely revolting. It would in intolerable if the fiancé and I were not going to San Diego next week to do things totally unrelated to computers, books, libraries, or pathologic dread of the future.
There has been a lot of communication chez moi. This means I don’t get enough sleep, because the communication comes in the form of phone calls from people who have forgotten about time zones. 5am from Nigeria, midnight from the Yukon. The latter is from an old friend who at least isn’t calling me from jail this time, but has attained a level of inebriation that even the most dedicated college student cannot attain. The conversation, which lasts an hour and a half, is singularly awful. It is like raw place.
In Iowa, for the first time in my life, I discovered what it is like to not agree with ones parents. This is perhaps indicative of my suspended development; now I angst about my father, in my twenties. But what am I to do; he believes my education is a failure unless I conclude that anyone who believes in any form of afterlife is stupid and wrong. I tend to limit my pronouncements of stupidity and wrongness to my own work, for the former, and gross transgressions of ethics, for the latter. The shit in-between is not my concern.
I am back in Providence, where I write thesis from 8:30am to 5:30pm and then apply to jobs after supper. This, of course, is completely revolting. It would in intolerable if the fiancé and I were not going to San Diego next week to do things totally unrelated to computers, books, libraries, or pathologic dread of the future.