March 18, 2008 § 3 Comments
The other night, while taking the bus to a dinner party in the city’s east end, I gazed past my own reflection in the window and daydreamed furiously. As the snow-crusted streets slipped by, I tried to envision what my life will be like a year from now, when, assuming that the fates have been kind, my dissertation is finished and the vanishing point finally comes into view.
This is, for the time being, largely an exercise of imagination, one that oh-so-seductively distracts from the rather more sober business of writing said dissertation. There is nothing fanciful about the filling of pages and their careful footnoting, and certainly nothing blog-worthy, especially in these dour winter months when the prospect of braving the elements even for a four-course meal requires cautious deliberation.
Still, imagining has lately become a kind of fuel, one that momentarily lifts my gaze from the murk of the water I have been treading to higher, brighter beacons of possibility. At these moments, I can glimpse something other than the wall behind my computer screen and the collection of photocopied articles and unpaid bills that are perpetually strewn at its base, something that is tantalizingly different than more of the same.
As I rode the same bus home, four courses and several glasses of wine later, I let my thoughts drift to S. and to spring and was glad of the relative certainty of both.