"I don't want my former students dancing over my corpse." --Michael C. Clark, stoic lifelong forebearer
How much things have changed, even in the incipient nuances. ABC keeps up on those educating captions that it used in Lost. Madeleine Stowe and Henry Czerny are atavistic blood sucking comforts, meant to be. Vampires without the fanfare, either Gothic or overwrought in the histrionic sensibility of Anne Rice. If you had to choose between mothers who outlive their children and the pulse of that living scar which diminishes them, and a rabid elitist such as I, would you find the decision agonizing? Sontag also died of leukemia, like Anne's daughter, and I can enter into the impact this had on her son, how it magnified for him, felt it in his words, how he kept repeating "she wasn't the same person," over and over to the interviewer, relating her medical battle with the blood cancer.
Michael, in contrast, is my beast in the jungle, a manufactured construct of the sort whom I should have married. This is what my philosophy instructor wanted me to see, but it actualized too late for my realization. What it points to, however, is why I am so invested in the James list and the scholars in it, whether they are gracious or catty. I just want to publish a few good articles to honor the memory of my stalwart academic advisor. He never abandoned me, whatever imposition I became so many years after the fact, and I simply haven't found my angle, cat fights with Greg Zacharias over my lack of regimentation notwithstanding.
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