the autumn of my discontent

There's a short story by David Foster Wallace called "Here and There." There's a passage in it that says something to the effect of eventually every there you head for, filled with excitement though you may be to be heading to a place of new people, new adventures, new life, every There evenutally becomes a Here, with your eyes focused on an all new There. I am very happy Here. This Here is still very much a There.

But there's something nagging at me just below the surface. Something that makes me want to "buckle up my tough old heart and hit the road." Pull a Codi Noline (not to mix my fiction, but I've jumped over to Animal Dreams by Kingsolver) move ahead and experience my next place, get out of Grace, AZ and move on to Telluride. AD also has a passage where Codi hears that the Pueblos used to take a piece of their home with them when they moved on so that they would never be without the things they love and cherish. She says she'll probably take a piece of Grace (which is a metaphor I love...) when she leaves. But someone points out to her that there's a difference between taking a piece of home when you move on and always moving on looking for a home. About ground orientation: instead of circling above the ground looking for a great place to start life and live, and being down on the ground and living it.

That's the distinction I've never mastered. Denver fits my bill in a lot of ways: nice people, less expensive gas than in CA, a good school that is keeping me challenged, the right kind of seasons, and I've met some fantastic people. I don't want to leave here, at least right now. But when it gets to be too much, I want to find a geographic cure for a problem. Which is in a lot of ways like drinking chamomile tea to stop nuclear proliferation; two different categories.

It's just going to be a long 3 weeks before the quarter ends.

About this blog

erratically updated for food, yarn, or other nonspecified reasons