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Murph

Like a twig on the shoulders of a mighty river, I submit to Wuck’s torrential ambition. There’s something reassuring, after all, in lending one’s tools to a capable and caring craftsman. So often has my life hinged upon painstaking decisions—what to read, write about, teach, sacrifice; where to study, work, live—that it’s nice to be told what to do. I remember fondly, Wuck—for instance and in particular—our one-act competition pieces from junior and senior year, not only how impressive the finished products were for actors our age, but just how little I had to worry about beyond my own performance. At the time, I think, I took it all for granted, but you must have exhausted hours cutting those pieces down to size: merging scenes or rearranging lines or whatever. So this all feels a bit like that, <quote-01>sheltered and nostalgic<quote-01>. Still, sitting sleepily before my office computer, fifteen minutes until my six o’clock critical thinking class, just weeks from my thirty-eighth (?!?) birthday, I’ll admit that I’m not as convinced of this endeavor as I was at seventeen of Art or Long Day’s Journey into Night. But if you, Hoke—just as busy and just as middle-aged—are as excited about it as you are, Wuck, then the passage will likely be worth my time, whatever the destination. For me, I suppose, any other apologia is secondary. And while I don’t think this process will simulate the high of arranging <quote-02>Oingo Boingo’s “We Close Our Eyes”<quote-02> on our way through the Nevada desert—you, Wuck, very seriously guiding you, Hoke, through your paces on glockenspiel—I am hopeful.

2020.02.02

<pull-quote>sheltered and nostalgic<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>i question the value you put in the nostalgic, as i know you question my use of the word “value”<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>It's difficult for me to put a price on nostalgia, I value it so much. I get how those without a happy connection to their past might inflect "nostalgic" with "pathetic." But loving the past and living in it are two very different things. Frankly, I feel sorry for those who don't love parts of their past. It's so intoxicating, after all, to experience a positive sensation from the past in the present. I mean, you read the late Proust, right? This is terrain for ample exploration (with a strong connection to baseball).<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>Oingo Boingo’s “We Close Our Eyes”<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>it was, if i recall, your idea to present an arrangement of this tune to koontz for his wedding. i’d assume part of what made the seriousness of hoke’s xylophone lessons stimulating was my wholehearted investment in a project you’d conceptualized. in that sense, getting the two of you to write these first entries is for me on par.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>The high was simply us together working on something. The promise of nearly immediate payoff probably helped.<p-comment>
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