Dad: I can't believe the number of bugs in this place. All kinds of bugs that bite the shit out of you. I hate them one kind, they're so small they look like a speck of dirt, but then are biting the shit out of you. How can something so small have such a big mouth? It would be like you biting a watermelon.
Scene: Dad is collecting and organizing his two months of bargain collecting, tool aquisition, and general knick knacks. He hands me a stack of CDs.
Dad: Hey, look at all these CDs I just got at Salvation Army!
Me: rummaging. Um, don't you already have this La Bouche CD?
Dad: Yeah, but it's really good, and I wanted a copy for here.
I just got back from the Big City, dropping dad off at the major airport. By now, he's somewhere in Seattle, making his way back to Oregon. Just like I always do, I cried after he rounded the corner at the security check-point, for it is his presence that makes GradTownShitVille almost bearable.
In the moment that I dried my tears, I saw my life modeled a finite number of events. I now have one less time that I will say goodbye to my father at an airport. While I may have not aged in the past two months during his visit, I certainly did in that moment of realization. I guess that's perfect timing, since next week I will turn 29.
I am not glad to turn 29. I would much rather skip my birthday this year, skipping all my birthdays until I've left GradShitTownVille. I think of the quote I posted from Carson McCullers a few weeks back. I think of how Frankie modeled her life in three layers, in which the present layer was very thin, for she was about to embark on a new life.
My own present layer is sweaty, greasy and thick, filled with old events spanning my present that is simply graduate schol. There is no grand future to which I can look forward, for my future is distant and unknown. Will I graduate? Will I give up? Will I ever get my dream job? Instead, I remain mired in my present layer, filled with frustrating meetings, gender battles, long-acting beta agonists, humidity, and snow.
Bye Dad. Come back soon.