So I'm sitting here in my office, a intimate little affair that is always too warm and that has a window that looks out on what could be a courtyard were it actually maintained. This is the place where paper comes to hide. It's like the research graveyard in here. I should probably decorate it a bit, as right now it would best be described as "Late modernist academic landfill."
Today's been a decent day as they go. The sun's out, the temperature is up (at leat what counts for up in these parts - mid 50's), the term is winding down. My lectures are reviewed and ready, the term is winding up, my favorite student came by to shoot the breeze (yes, I have a favorite student - all your teachers and professors did), I've been humming away grading papers and eating my lunch (which bears striking resemblence to the lunches I took to school for most of my elementary school days - I wonder if that's coincidence? PB&J - strawberry, the only way to live - and yogurt for those of you who are curious).
Then my thoughts started to drift to big questions of the future: will I be here in a year? Will I get time to work on my book this summer? Will living with a roommate be alright? And that's when it happens. My bookshelves, as one, rise up. Or rather, pile down. Half the books in my office came flying off the wall to the floor.
As an omen, this feels major. If you were an automechanic considering changing your job, the equivalent (or so it seems to me) would be to have a a fully loaded car carrier drop out of the sky almost - but thankfully not - right on top of you. Thankfully there was very little actually damaged: The Boys of My Youth by Jo Ann Beard. It's an excellent read, if you've not read it, and I'm going to feel sad replacing it.
España postimperial
1 day ago
