Epilogue

I started this blog before I started law school but after I knew I was going. I have passed the bar and am practicing law. You will notice that I never talk about work. I don't even say who I work for, it doesn't matter. I have nothing else to say about that.

Kurt Vonnegut had something to say about people living out the epilogue of their lives. I should really know his works better because I did my term paper for Uncle Joe (11th Grade) on the (then) complete works of Kurt Vonnegut. But I don't have more than a vague idea about a series of books that I read 20 years ago, other than to say that this is not the epilogue of my life, but its definitely reached the end of a story arc of some sort.

I spent much of my life loving to be a student and being good at it. And I never want to go back to school ever again if I can possibly help it. I have other things to say about that.

I never thought I would be single again. I assumed that I would die tragically in my 60s and leave behind a rich, grieving widow. That might still happen, but it won't be my first choice. Much could be said about my divorce. Not much of it interesting, and if you read this blog, you've probably heard it anyway (in private, where its appropriate to discuss such things). To the extent that I have used this format to expressed myself on this topic, it has been in through what I've chosen not to say about it; on purpose. If you go back for the last few years and read what I haven't written, and you'll see what I mean.

Does facebook compete?
Not for good content, at least.
no haiku over there!



I didn't want to end 3 of 4 on the death of my mother. Besides, my blog has left a few lose ends that I wanted to clear up. For the sake of irony, I will say that if you have been reading this blog since the beginning ,and are looking for a series of posts that will explain all the non sequiturs, and let you in on all the inside jokes, then you should read these epilogue posts.

I want to start with a segue about what I learned about my Mom from her books and papers. My mom used to write me emails, and then not send them. But instead, she'd transfer them to ClarisWorks, change around the fonts, then print the letter out, and then color some of the letters in some of the words. The text itself was always full of elipitical statements, vague allusions, and dangling participles. They read like love letters from a reformed ransom note artist.

I discovered these crazy letters were not the result of a random thought followed by a craft project. No. Mom started out with some ideas that she'd jot down on a yellow legal pad. Then she'd write a draft and edit it for grammar. At some point she'd have a lucid message. But unhappy with her tone, she'd start to self-censor: obscuring things that made her uncomfortable by trying to be clever or eccentric. She loved me very much, but she was embarassed to feel so strongly.

When we spoke on the phone, our conversations were like the tea-cup ride at DisneyWorld: a carousel with little carousels inside, madness decorated with frenetic civility and imprecise historical references. The shared experience of taking an idea and talking it round and round--- that was what put her in such a good mood. And putting her in a good mood put me in a good mood. Nobody has ever really enjoyed turning ideas on their head as much as her. But it can be hard on the people who love you when you insist on being outside the box all the time.

So... What do I do with these late night confessions of seeing myself reflected in my impressions of her?

...

There is nothing to do. And it is a mistake to assume that one must do something with insight. Trying to wrap it all up into a proverb or kohan