While others discuss what kind of religious emblems the federal government ought to establish on the tombstones of soldiers, a friend of Crescat and I are baffled by this chart from the VA's website, which lists all of the available emblems except the symbol of the scientologists Christian Scientists and the "MUSLIM (Islamic 5 Pointed Star)," which it claims it does not show "because of copyrights".

Does anybody know what's going on here? I think the VA is referring to the Druze star, but that's shown (on Wikipedia, at least, in a picture) which presumably the alleged copyright holder would have stopped by now. Of course, there are also the Baha'i, but that makes even less sense.

At any rate, even if this mysterious symbol has been copyrighted recently, and the term has not expired, and it would not be fair use for the federal government to provide a sample of the symbol to grieving families picking a tombstone, I sort of wonder why the government can't just amend the Tucker Act, infringe anyway, and be done with it.

Sudeep's right. Sooner or later, I'm going to have to leave this blog. My reading of the code that binds a federal law clerk, combined with my preference for rules over standards, mean that it will be exceedingly difficult for me to maintain a blog after my move to the Wild West, even if I had the consent of my employer (and I have not discussed the matter with him in detail).

That said, two things are not at all clear to me. First of all, whether that should happen sooner or later. I had always assumed that the blog would remain alive-- whether thriving or dying-- until I graduated from law school (which seems to be the traditional time for other law-student blogs to close up shop). Sudeep points out that nobody loves a drama queen; fair enough. But that still doesn't establish whether the final notes should sound in October or March or August.

Second, my absence need not mean Crescat's. Though the blog's DNA is chiefly my own, part of the point in changing from "Baudes blog" to "Crescat" and in obtaining such a fancy co-blogging crew was to create a creation that might be able to survive the crater left by the absence of any particular member. One falls, but the herd rides on. Tied up in this is also the possibility of return. I will not be a law clerk forever, and may well return to the blogosphere some time hence-- but if that happens, who knows whether that will be here, some new venture, or somewhere else?

So. This blog still lives, despite the best hopes of friends and enemies, at least until some decisions are made. This is something a relief; I wonder what it will be like to be a person without a blog-- a blog that has netted me three apartments, two summer jobs, two girlfriends, and countless other friendships, frustrations, and fun things.

And indeed there will be time.

Despite the fact that the delicious-ness of yu-hsiang eggplant is a particular unavailable today; Sudeep channels the correct sentiment. This strange, wonderful conversation has many voices but one primary head: we would not be so much prevented from speaking as compelled to stop our utterance out of a thing akin to grief and an etiquette memorial. Some might say that speech would be a type of honor, and it will be, but not in this place. This is a ship, not a ship of state; as her founder founders, we ride the ship to Davy's in unison, then depart, through the east gate, to sadder venues. What will Chang do without Eng? New chords, different sheets.

The waitress broke the pregnant silence between Will and myself this evening, bringing the pork-stuffed eggplant to the table with a cheerful "enjoy."

We were distraught. The thought had, of course, crossed our mind that our imposition on our audience had long since run its course, but never did it ever occur to us to say the words out loud. As Will poured the tea and passed the bowl of rice to me, he asked precisely how to proceede. It was, after all (we had agreed--), like breaking up with someone, or graduating from college all over again, or losing a very good friend to an argument, or worse, and once it was done, it would be impossible to undo, or so we thought. After all, here was talk of ending something that had consumed nearly four years of Will's and some of his friends' lives, and two, almost three, of my very own. To close a chapter on a sort of thing like this, Will noted, was not something exactly easy or fun to do.

Maybe something on the anniversary, he suggested, something auspicious, a special day. I, of course, didn't like this--it would have been a disaster had Christ been born on the thirty-first of December, or the Solstice--some things demand their own day, and some things will arrive regardless of what we say.

And then there was the worry. The communiques the group of us shared were not only discussions on how things are, but how things are proceeding, what's changing, what's new (intellectually and socially): how will we keep in touch with ourselves (phone calls, letters and e-mails, and the occassional visit, we suggested)? How will we meet new people (we might just have to step into the sunlight once in a while, we acquiesced)? And what about the people who actually pay attention to us (they have other people to pay attention to as well, we agreed)?

Will has always, at the very least, been one smarter, mentioning that it isn't exactly his to end, that there are at least three other active participants who might have words to mince. Always the slower realist, I noted that Will was, still, at the helm, and we were still at his bidding, that should he decide to stop here, we would humbly be forced to assent, and, given the recent state of things, not unexpected.

It was, yes, sad, but things like these happen all the time--I reached into the same plate where Will was fiddling for a strip of yu-hsiang eggplant--and better it happened definitely rather than letting it slowly fade away, making people constantly question whether it's still there, whether not, and how? Or worse yet, to have vastly exaggerated versions of the event--that the rumor mill should start to run, and oh, how they'd talk. Or worse, to become one of them, set aside in disarray, abandoned without much explanation or care.

So it was decided, an end (we swallowed our guilty Wormwood). And now, the question remained, walking through the dreary drizzle of the early October Cantabridgean evening towards Harvard Square: Mahler or Mozart? Should the end come quietly, fadingly, on some unexpected day, in the middle of some incomplete thought? Some sentence heaving its final breath, cut off mid-word? Or should it be auspicious and clear, with crisp, resounding five-ones of a symphonic terminus?

My bag of silver never looked quite so repulsive.