I uploaded the next draft of my dissertation concept paper to the course room a few minutes ago. I should feel elated, but all I can muster is a little gratitude that technology functioned as it is supposed to. I thought I'd feel some relief, but I don't. I look around and see that my life has shrunk to a cluttered, filthy 12 x 20 foot room. Yesterday was a superb day, weather-wise, and I didn't once set foot outside my apartment. Is this life? I guess it is. I'm still breathing.I scoured this paper, I polished, I wrestled and argued and smacked it around. Then I pronounced it ready and launched it in the cybersphere. Now the file can sit in my chairperson's inbox, until she has time to download and read it. I hope she will hand it off to the faceless anonymous committee. She said she would. But that was before Superstorm Sandy obliterated the east coast. Now, all bets are off.
It is strange to watch my outer life shrink to a speck. My body goes through the motions of getting up, feeding itself, dressing up in the uniform, going to work, doing my job. I interact, I discuss, I evaluate and criticize, like a teacher is supposed to do. I come home on autopilot, dreaming of bed before I'm even in it. I look around at my place and see the encroachment of nature: ants, spiders, dust bunnies, hair balls. I live in a time capsule, circa 2005, when I started this dissertation nightmare and stopped housekeeping. All my clutter—my books, my art, my photos, my crap—stands frozen in time under a thick layer of dust. The only things that gleam from repeated use are the computer keyboard and the remote control for my old analog television.
My inner life, though, my inner life is rich, filled with absorbing questions, observations, plans. As shriveled as my outer life is, my inner life glows with enticing avenues to explore. I stumble around the garden, so to speak, because my brain is old and tired, but I'm still entranced by the dogged pursuit of knowledge. I guess the last six years weren't a total waste.
