Since 1 November, I've been making stuff at a more relaxed pace. The ideas keep flowing and I keep putting them down on some substrate or other. It feels good. I feel alive. I feel engaged. I feel like I contain multitudes again.
On the dissertation front, it finally clicked that I have learned some things during the past few years. I suppose that the accumulation of knowledge while writing is so immense, so concetrated, and so specialized, that it's difficult to quantify. Bitterness and exhaustion also probably colour my vision. What is that massive pile in the corner? Most likely some worthless shit.
As I clean up my Burian chapter (WHY didn't I write my entire dissertation about him? WHY?), I'm surprised at the information and connections that I'm adding. I found it disturbing on Saturday when I realized that I'm non-chalantly spouting off about Aristotelian poetics and wondering how I missed Burian's digs at it before. Geezus H., kiddies. I. am. an. expert. on. something. Writing still makes me brain hurt but in a good way. I don't dread the office as much as I had in the past.
Most importantly, I can see the end of the road. I'm going to finish and it's going to be awesome. Birds will sing. The sky will be brighter. Food will taste better. My hair will be shinier. I will have a fancy pants title that I will use because I. will. be. an. expert. on. something. Who cares if I'm an expert on Burian, about whom most North Americans have never heard? I care. Take that yankee pragmatism.
And now I am off to the library, which shall certainly kill my good mood. That place sucks.
There's nothing below the fold.