In less than three weeks, I'll have packed up my bags in preparation to move to Los Angeles, a visit to Washington, and an eventual placement in Busan. Joining the cavalcade of students graduating on to become something else, I'll fly away and my room in this house will likely end up being an extra study for the girls.

In slow preparation for this transition, I've dug out my books from their boxes, stacks, and bags and set about diligently sorting through which to keep, which to give away, which to sell, and which to leave behind at home.

A book of lyric and poetry is marked to a recently forgotten friend in Hamilton, for the memories.

A novel I recently finished promised to a friend, along with two collections by Andrea Barrett, who seamlessly weaves fact and data with human intimacy--all three books reminding me of her whimsy.

Flannery O'Connor and Anne Bogart are coming with me.

Next to my desk sit two stacks of books I've read or hadn't bothered to read--either way, they are were all listed on Amazon (all fifty or so of them) for a few dollars apiece. Immediately, notifications for shipment began. It's almost surprising that somebody in San Antonio purchased 1984, that a Texan bought an old anthology of short stories, or that somebody in Arkansas wants to learn How to Read Literature Like a Professor. All right: I purchased 1984 too. I enjoyed those short stories, noted its authors, and wanted to see how Professors read literature.

I suppose it is greed that piled these books in my possession, trolling through the library's tent sales and quietly pining through used bookstores; it is greed again that brings me to hesitate wrapping, addressing, and sending them off to various corners of the U.S. There are a few that I am ready to part with after having read through them; I wouldn't read them again and I know it, beautiful as they are. But most of the sixteen that I've sent so far are accompanied with a packing slip on which I have scribbled a note to their new owners: "Thanks for the purchase. Please enjoy this terrifying and wonderful novel, this small collection of poetry. If it is anything less than you expected, please don't hesitate to contact me for a refund; I'll take it back. Enjoy the smell." I hesitate leaving instruction to let me know what they think.

Anyway--does anybody out there want some books? Say yes, and I'll send you something that fits.

I once read an article by Seth Godin, whom many claim to be a marketing genius. At the time, my brother--the one who quickly and quietly did well in school, impassively so--had just graduated with a degree in finance from Michigan State's business school. The economy was on its initial descent and even those graduating in the practical sciences were struggling to find placement after receiving their degrees. So it was with my brother, and we all held our breath for him as his interviewing skill sharpened to a numbing point. Much like he does now, well into his current job at 5/3 Bank in Grand Rapids and recently promoted to a less entry-level and less boring position, his enthusiasm was, as usual, impassive. The article I'm talking about was brief, and the bulk of its content was a quick list of ideas for what the unemployed can do in their "spare time" in order to fortify their resume--volunteer, take a course, organize, learn a language (Spanish, html, Illustrator, or otherwise), and so forth. What would it be like to get up of your own accord at 8 AM every morning to diligently continue learning? I've always thought this "work ethic," or curiosity, was something to take note of--something to consciously strive towards. And while this mentality can very easily overlap with restlessness--perhaps even frenzy--I don't know that the absolute alternative would be any better. "Onward and upward," some people once said, though there are better arguments than that.