— this is really happening

frodo.jpgMy to-do list just got shorter by about six letters: t h e s i s. The metaphors are thick and plenty now, flowin’ heavy like the ‘I’m warning you blue’ of dawn earlier this morning. The secret to the final hours, you ask? Aside from the Krispy Kremes and caffeine injections? Well, for one, I knew I’d get to write this post at the end of it all. For two, at some of the toughest spots I breathed in deep and remembered the mile ten mantra: You can do this. Running has taught me so much. (Cue Chariots of Fire, boys.) And for three, I knew when I’d finished I’d get to give Frodo and Sam their rightful due praise. Swearly and squarly, those two Hobbitses really were my mascots in the final hour.

It's gone . . . it's done.

SAM looks down at FRODO ... FRODO'S FACE is at PEACE ...
his BURDEN destroyed...

Yes, Mr. Frodo ... it's over now.

FRODO and SAM crawl onto a ROCK as LAVA streams towards
them . . . in seconds THEIR ROCK is an island in a sea

FRODO shuts his eyes . . .

I can see the Shire ... The Brandywine
River, Bag End, Gandalf's fireworks . . .
the lights in the Party Tree . . .

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Heads up! Nephew Appreciation Day. I do not have the bandwidth to write about our experiences together at his last visit (doggone thesis be due in fiddysix hours). Forgive, no attempting cute metaphor or other. Luckily, his handsome face and the beauty of his parents speak impeccably for our biggest, little man.
Meet Ari

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A Walk 

My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-

and charges us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave…
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.

Rainer Maria Rilke

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fillet.jpgI’ve just learned that Apple’s token design anthem, the concave corner joint that marks every white rounded edge on every iPod on the planet, is called a "fillet" (pronounced: fill-let). Not everybody has a 3D modeling printer per se, but it’s still good to know what rounded edges are properly called.

Also, on our big run yesterday we encountered an alien spaceship right in the heart of Rockridge. Lots of fillets on this badboy.


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My close friend Seofon can be smartly quoted as saying, "All things invisible only want to be noticed. If you give something a name it will leave you in peace." Let’s unsheathe the invisible then, shall we? It is time to give name to a particular modus operandi. Foot in mouth, even as I write this brief post, I am guilty of said action. Call it a terrifiying fear of being alone, or in a brighter light, a tremendous fascination with the creativity that is potentially being uploaded into ether cables across the lands. Heretofore AND henceforth, the need to "check blogs, check emails, check NYT’s homepage, refresh, refresh, check mail, refresh, check blogs" will be referred to as, "researching the history of ink." (credit: Ben Marcus) The idea behind this new gambit being: who gives a shit about the history of ink? I mean, come on. And yet, as if awakening from a stupor, sometimes we each find ourselves nose to screen, poring over line after line, inhaling as much info as we can about these inconceivably ridiculous topics. Just because we can. Just because Firefox took us there. Just because Kirk Cameron has a fan page. So I ask you, history of ink? Interesting, sure! Necessary, not so much. Dangerous, definitely.

To fight this need, my friend and I have scribbled visible reminders on our arms. A day of writing thesis or short story need not be completed by researching the history of ink! No, friends, on the contrary! I already know the history of ink … 


and for my friend, the history of ink is within. 


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Let’s welcome into the universe a beautiful baby daughter, Maya Ame’lie Waldorf. Maya was born at 3:06 pm on Wednesday Nov 21st – 6 lbs. even – 19 in. – perfect in every way. Congratulations Dave & Heather, two of the best parents a girl could dream of. 


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