where i end and you begin
The monsoon has arrived, and a storm is in its birth pangs outside; the wind is shrieking around my corner room and there is lightning in the distance. My internet is flickering in and out with the power, which disrupts my work since I have to type in a password to get onto the secure network every time the wireless router resets. So I have decided to go to bed early and get up early to accomplish what needs to be done. Whether this is a viable possibility remains to be seen, since I frequently convince my sleeping self to stay asleep instead of waking up to face the day.
Had I been smart, I would have stayed at the office longer, or worked after eating dinner at home, but instead I picked up a book and was immediately lost. I'm reading 'The Rule of Four', which is written by Princeton grads who clearly enjoy the taste and flavor of the English language, and use clever verbiage to dress up an already-interesting plot. Walter had picked up the 'Hypnerotomachia Poliphili' last summer, probably because beneath his endless silence lies a vocabulary that surpasses my own, and I was interested in both the original Italian work and the modern-day 'Da Vinci Code'-style thriller that uses it as its primary plot device. However, I was never interested enough to abandon the baking of Olympic ring cakes and the enjoyment of endless summer popcorn flicks, and so I didn't read either book last year. Now, however, in a land where books are cheap and friends are scarce, I'm rediscovering my youthful passion for literature. Of course, by 'literature' I mean romances and thrillers, so perhaps I'm exaggerating a bit.
The book is making me quite nostalgic, however, for an academic career that I have let fall by the wayside in my pursuit of the good ol' American dream of financial success. Actually, it's not financial success that motivates me, but rather inertia combined with a desire to stay in California a bit longer. Ironic, isn't it, that by wanting to stay in California, I have ended up in India?
But seriously, the only thing that I felt serious passion for at Stanford was the work I did for my honors thesis--I spent three years researching one man and one doomed conspiracy, and at the end of it, all I was left with was a sense of futility. It was better than the sense of futility that must have been felt by the men I studied, since I did not experience my futility while dangling from a piano-wire noose as Berlin burned around me, but it was still a life-shaping experience. As much as I was good at the research that I did and excited about the subject that I studied, it still felt somewhat derivative and useless.
And that, my friends, is why I have not gone to graduate school--while I think that I could probably be a great teacher, a solid researcher, and a benefit to my chosen field of study, there has to be something more to life than researching the lives of others. What that 'something' is, I have no idea. I feel like I should know what it is that I'm supposed to do--or maybe I already know and am just refusing to acknowledge it. As every SLE kid worth his salt knows, Saint Augustine once prayed, 'Give me chastity and continence, but not yet'. Perhaps that's what is wrong with me--I want to know what it is that I'm supposed to do with my life, but I don't want to know yet because I'm afraid that it's going to be fraught with difficulties and will not necessarily be an enjoyable experience. Every day that I go to the office is filled with fun interactions with people and enough work to make me sleep dreamlessly; but it's also a day that I cannot retrieve, and it's another day that is lost to whatever purpose my life is supposed to hold. Unless, of course, my purpose is to slave away in corporate America, in which case it's highly ironic that I'm so concerned about what great things my future might hold.
Perhaps it is just the storm outside, and the crescendos of thunder, that is making me feel restless tonight. Perhaps my delusions of grandeur are unhealthily enhanced by servants and marble floors. Perhaps I am obsessed with World War II because I believe that it is my destiny to be the first person to conquer Russia from the West. Perhaps my life is passing me by while I listen to Shakira alone during the monsoon. Perhaps my life has not yet really begun, and perhaps I am placing too much emphasis on my current position of uncertainty.
Okay, this post has worn out its welcome. If I am going to make it into the office early enough to accomplish everything that needs to be done, I should really sleep. Goodnight!
Had I been smart, I would have stayed at the office longer, or worked after eating dinner at home, but instead I picked up a book and was immediately lost. I'm reading 'The Rule of Four', which is written by Princeton grads who clearly enjoy the taste and flavor of the English language, and use clever verbiage to dress up an already-interesting plot. Walter had picked up the 'Hypnerotomachia Poliphili' last summer, probably because beneath his endless silence lies a vocabulary that surpasses my own, and I was interested in both the original Italian work and the modern-day 'Da Vinci Code'-style thriller that uses it as its primary plot device. However, I was never interested enough to abandon the baking of Olympic ring cakes and the enjoyment of endless summer popcorn flicks, and so I didn't read either book last year. Now, however, in a land where books are cheap and friends are scarce, I'm rediscovering my youthful passion for literature. Of course, by 'literature' I mean romances and thrillers, so perhaps I'm exaggerating a bit.
The book is making me quite nostalgic, however, for an academic career that I have let fall by the wayside in my pursuit of the good ol' American dream of financial success. Actually, it's not financial success that motivates me, but rather inertia combined with a desire to stay in California a bit longer. Ironic, isn't it, that by wanting to stay in California, I have ended up in India?
But seriously, the only thing that I felt serious passion for at Stanford was the work I did for my honors thesis--I spent three years researching one man and one doomed conspiracy, and at the end of it, all I was left with was a sense of futility. It was better than the sense of futility that must have been felt by the men I studied, since I did not experience my futility while dangling from a piano-wire noose as Berlin burned around me, but it was still a life-shaping experience. As much as I was good at the research that I did and excited about the subject that I studied, it still felt somewhat derivative and useless.
And that, my friends, is why I have not gone to graduate school--while I think that I could probably be a great teacher, a solid researcher, and a benefit to my chosen field of study, there has to be something more to life than researching the lives of others. What that 'something' is, I have no idea. I feel like I should know what it is that I'm supposed to do--or maybe I already know and am just refusing to acknowledge it. As every SLE kid worth his salt knows, Saint Augustine once prayed, 'Give me chastity and continence, but not yet'. Perhaps that's what is wrong with me--I want to know what it is that I'm supposed to do with my life, but I don't want to know yet because I'm afraid that it's going to be fraught with difficulties and will not necessarily be an enjoyable experience. Every day that I go to the office is filled with fun interactions with people and enough work to make me sleep dreamlessly; but it's also a day that I cannot retrieve, and it's another day that is lost to whatever purpose my life is supposed to hold. Unless, of course, my purpose is to slave away in corporate America, in which case it's highly ironic that I'm so concerned about what great things my future might hold.
Perhaps it is just the storm outside, and the crescendos of thunder, that is making me feel restless tonight. Perhaps my delusions of grandeur are unhealthily enhanced by servants and marble floors. Perhaps I am obsessed with World War II because I believe that it is my destiny to be the first person to conquer Russia from the West. Perhaps my life is passing me by while I listen to Shakira alone during the monsoon. Perhaps my life has not yet really begun, and perhaps I am placing too much emphasis on my current position of uncertainty.
Okay, this post has worn out its welcome. If I am going to make it into the office early enough to accomplish everything that needs to be done, I should really sleep. Goodnight!
posted by Sara @ 9:55 AM
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