Four things

1. I am addicted to catching up with old friends. For several years now, Google was my cohort, and what a thrill to finally pinpoint someone and fire off that "Hey, how the hell are ya?" email. Now that I have dunked myself into the world of Facebook, it's easier than ever. So easy, in fact, that I am finding people I didn't even remember that I knew. So easy that they are beating me to it and finding me first. So easy that I have to wonder: maybe were we just supposed to let those people go after all.

2. That woman who I spoke to in Accounts Payable at [name of company] yesterday was totally odd. Her accent was modest at best, and I therefore find it hard to believe that there was a language barrier. But, as I politely asked where my company can send a reimbursement check to her company, for a minor overpayment on invoice 85850, she refused to finish a single sentence, forcing me to do so for her.

HER: Please include a.... (long pause)
ME: A... letter?
HER: Yes, a letter. A letter with the... (endless pause)
ME: Oh, maybe with the invoice number?
HER: Sure, the invoice number would be great. As well as the original... (killer pause)
ME: Original? Original invoice?
HER: No, that won't be necessary. But the original... (is she still on the line?)
ME: Ahhh.....a....a-mount?
HER: The amount would be great, yes.

You get the idea.

3. My children are sleeping right now in these sort of sideways-running positions. Heads plastered to pillows, one leg up, bent at the knee, hands in little fists. They are technically facing each other, though the shared wall of their bedrooms divides them. Are they dreaming about running? Are they running toward each other to embrace the other with all their love, or perhaps just to steal the other one's highly-prized hat? Regardless, I want to squeeze them both really, really hard. I resist, for if they wake I will be completely pissed off.

4. It has been almost two weeks since David Foster Wallace took his own life. As many others much more eloquent than me have already said, he was an absolutely amazing writer. His fiction and non-fiction alike have incredible depth and intelligence. Through his complex narratives and twisted sentences, he made the world - his world - clearer. Perhaps his best known work, and the first of his that I read, was the mammoth Infinite Jest. Among other things, this immense novel was about addiction, and I believe that the book's girth was intended in part to create a nearly endless supply of text for the entranced reader. I enjoyed the book very much, though it took me nearly half a year to complete. But I did not, like so many others, like my DFW-fan brother, become addicted to it.

Since DFW killed himself, I have not been able to stop reading about him. Not about his actual death per se, but about the man. The writer. The teacher that so many former students have been remembering online these last two weeks. I cannot stop reading about his ridiculous generosity, fierce sense of privacy, and general awkwardness with his own situation. Just watch his Charlie Rose interview from 1997 and you will see a brilliant author tormented by the predicament of his own success and fame.

I am reading one of his essay collections now, and will read some of his short stories next. My brother may reread Infinite Jest, though I think I will not likely take that on. But I will continue to read his work, read the writings of those who miss him the most, and read about his life. And, as much as I hate to admit that the posthumous man is the more captivating man, I am addicted. Finally, over a decade later, I am addicted.