Slow Progress to the Score of Summer

I am still trudging along in this thesis. Sometimes it stops making any sense to me. I've worked the argument over so many times. Some days it is painfully obvious, and I'm afraid I'm really not contributing anything novel at all. Other days, it seems convoluted and contrived, and I'm afraid it's full of dead ends and unsubstantiated claims. Some days it drives me to distraction. Some days I am certain that this is my calling.

In any case, I'll hand it in within a week's time. Whether it's a turning point in my life, or just an eight month nightmare, it is soon coming to a close. Unfortunately, something as seemingly inconsequential as a letter grade will decide which way this goes. I'm sure I want to keep going to school, but I may shelve Heidegger for some time, lest I start writing like him. That ship may have sailed.

As I work away at it on a Friday night, my window open to relieve the stuffiness in this room, I can hear the sounds of cars bringing partygoers into the city. I can hear expensive shoes beating the pavement, and slurred speech creeping through the still night air, into my window, into my brain. A man is playing harmonica down the street.

During the day, I can hear children playing. On Sunday, if the weather is nice, I will sit here typing away to the beat of drums from the park as Tam Tams gets under way to mark the beginning of summer. At the worst of times, this is downright torture. But at least I have some distant company while I labour to finish this work.

I belong in the city. I am a people watcher, and now also a people-listener. If it gets bad, I will be a people-water-balloons-thrower.