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Marmaduke Bonthrop Shelmardine
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Hey, remember me?

Things are on the up and out, with a new job, a cat, and the anticipation of moving to a nicer part of town in September (possibly with some very excellent people!)

But if you'd like to hear about that, you'll have to head over to this place: http://www.blessedfog.blogspot.com

See you there?

As of tomorrow, it's been a week since moving to Chicago. I'm becoming less scared of our neighborhood, although the fact that U of C keeps sending Joel grim emails about not walking alone after dark doesn't help. He starts classes on Monday and I'm more than a little jealous, since I'm absorbed in finding an adult sort of job (read: no more cafes). There is an opening in the U Chicago Press for a manuscript editor, and I suspect I'm in the irritating position of being quite able to do the job without having quite enough experience to feel confident applying. Everyone says that B. A.'s are useless, but really, they're useless.

Apart from that, I've been playing house. So far we have a mattress, a table and chairs, and a futon that's arriving on Monday. So, all the rest of our things are jumbled in suitcases and boxes on the living room floor. The longer they stay there, the more I'm used to them, so I think we need to find some shelves soon and unpack. Even in a state of near total disorder, it's exciting to have a place that's mine. New Hampshire, for a lot of reasons, made me feel like a guest. And even though I hadn't let myself worry about living with Joel in any concrete way, so far it's been great. It's been lovely to have a few days of camping out and working our way through a bottle of excellent scotch that the inestimable John sent as a get-well-present for Joel.

Part of why the job search is stressful is because now I'm faced with making friends without the security of a college scene, or people who know me from high school. It's been strange having little conversations with people in our building, at the Co-op, or in the book store; I'm not quite sure how to turn those into something more substantial, or even if I want to. Meeting potential friends makes me more nervous that if I were just flirting with them, somehow that seems like more of a game.

Once Joel's school and my (prospective) job get started, I'll have more to write about. So far it seems like we're on a little vacation, but I'm looking forward to feeling like I really do live here.

ps- I'm trying to stop looking at petfinder.com, we can't afford a dog or a cat, but how can I deal with finding a kitty named one-eyed-Willy??

Although I'm now a college grad, summer still appears to be a space of relentlessly wasted time.

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I have a B.A. now

I also have a sunburn

All my possessions are in a van heading for New Hampshire, and I'm not quite sure when I'll be following them. I'm spending tonight in my naked bedroom, lulling this year's ghosts to sleep.

I'm enjoying dawdling (in a peculiar sort of way) over my last undergrad paper. Who knows when I'll be asked to do something like this again? With this also comes the feeling that I have the right to be done with all classwork, and to begin obsessing over finding a job in Chicago. (Emily, I want to work in their library, with the archives!)

I think I'm coming out of the postpartum funk of the end of project-writing. My board praised me a lot, told me to make it publishable, and shook my hand. (The only question I choked a bit on was "How do you think the novel is different from philosophical writing?" Although in answering it I did realize that's pretty much what my project is about...)

And I'm nearly a graduate. Bloomberg is speaking, and I'm looking forward to some spectacle.

More than that, I want to ride my bike to the beach.

Somehow choosing to address the problem of some jerk talking on a cellphone in the library by starting a much louder argument with him about it seems to rather miss the point.


From my list of things which would entertain me and are unlikely to occur (it isn't really a list, but one day I'll start writing these things down):

Somewhere around page 47 my project will transform itself into a script for a musical. Anyone got a rhyme for "dissociation?"

I'm also toying with the idea of beginning the Dostoevsky chapter with something along the lines of: "Well, basically this book is long. Really, really, damn long." Marina would probably prefer that I talk about epilepsy and Levinas instead.

I've spent my very last spring break (somehow I don't imagine grad school vacations as including that burden of finding someplace sunny and exciting to wreak some havoc) amidst New York's lazy-ass excuse for springtime. Flurries on an April afternoon? Unacceptable.

In five months I'm going to need a job and a home in Chicago. Does that feel real yet? Nope.

They're all going away

Jean Baudrillard, 1929-2007

Evidently death does not cease to exist, as with the rest of reality.

I'm also forming the thesis that the deaths of deconstructionists causes bees to vanish.

Of course, it could also be Communists, but my money's on the French.

Lately I've become more familiar with incredibly obvious "I'm worrying about something" dreams:

Last night's involved quite a few scenes, most of which I've forgotten, but what stuck with me was the part where I realized that someone has removed most of the bones in my feet. I discovered all these little marks on my feet, something like a lot of paper-cuts, that I could pick apart to have a look inside. There were tendons and veins and slimy, muscley things, but not a single bone. Although I was intensely disgusted by the sight of my feet, I didn't feel much surprise that the bones should be gone. I woke up with the strangest feeling in my toes, and spent a good fifteen minutes poking at them to make sure everything was in there.

Actually, I think I remember something from 'Girl Interrupted' about her believing her bones disappeared from her hand. So this isn't even a very original nervous dream.

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