Reading more Hannah Arendt now, On Revolution, and starting to get the feeling - I'm only about 15 pages in so maybe it will be corrected soon - that the poor woman died at the right time. Never saw the 80's and never saw Western society's flawless, splashless dive into utter individuality and the consequent annhilation of the polis, of her ideas of freedom and equality, and indeed of ideology in an abstract sense though I don't know if she'd have minded the last.
I mean, what would she have made of a jerkoff of a blog like this one I'm writing right now, where I whine about my feelings and how I think World War II should have been fought and go on about my favourite kinds of trees, which I write in the morning before I head off to a career which exists in some sick nether-zone between work and action . . . oh I don't know. It's not as bad as all that. I'm just in a poopy mood.
And really my job isn't as bad as all that, in some ways it's smashing, and I've even started largely appreciating our Yankee overlords, though we'll see how long that lasts if they neglect to give me the Australian contract, that will propel me into the upper - count it - the upper middle class. And anytime in the past week or so that I've been feeling poopy about my job, I've looked at this blog, that was on one of the Friday mail-outs by the guy who runs Sickipedia, and I count my blessings.