The semester is dying.

The forest floor at Giant City State Park. The purple blossoms looked like a bright fog, but it doesn't show up very well in this smaller version. If you click on the small one, you can view a somewhat larger version. One paper finished -- out of three -- and it was the one I didn't want to write. Try as I might, I just don't like George Herbert Mead. Too much talk of "society" and not enough of the self. I like William James better. Much better. I have left to write two papers on Max Scheler, that sexy German guy who used to steal Husserl's students. I am also fortunate enough to be able to work on a guided reading course over the summer on some of Scheler's lesser-known works -- with my favorite professor. I get to study Scheler with someone who helped work on the critical edition of his work. Just another stroke of luck in my beginning career in academia. I always seen to be very lucky in my educational adventures. I went to a mostly-female college as an undergrad, so they gave me a bunch of money to go there. I was lucky enough to get into two MA programs in Boston when I had to live there for two years while my wife finished at her terrible school. I was lucky enough to get a bunch of money to work on my PhD at the best place in the world to study American Pragmatism, and my wife got money to go there, too, to work on her MA in history (she was recently admitted early to the PhD program!). Sometimes I think I'm too lucky, and I'm almost waiting for something to go terribly wrong.