Last draft folks, at least for my thesis. How many times can something be revised? I am convinced infinite! And of course, once it is bound and on the library shelves, I will go to peek, open it up, and undoubtedly encounter another excess word, another typo or bad turn-of-phrase, another reason to cringe.
But I won't be cringing, I can promise you that! In fact, I am beginning to suspect that they do this on purpose—that the powers-that-be have me beat this to death so that by the time I am done I will feel pride, regardless of the final product.
But my product is fine, and I do feel proud of it, even in its bruised and bloody state.
Ode to Wonder Run Down (to Dulness)
Oh, thesis of mine, what challenge
will you next present? What
missing word, what maxed-out
margin, what miracle of momentum?
Will you make a manuscript, at last,
or a shroud, a shredded heap of paper
or a mattress of cotton rag on which my mind
will rest? Give me more time.
I will make a monument
of you yet—a steeple or stone—
a testimony to torment.
To press, you piece of
pursuit,
you parsimonious pack of paper!!!
. . .
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