March 22, 2013

Curtains of snow greeted the Equinox. The snow didn’t stay, but the weather has been cruel to those who’d had a taste of spring.

Woke from a dream wherein I was running the local arts council from a gigantic summer camp-like campus. We even had a dining hall and a commissary; I suppose the artists were actually in residence there. One building was a worry because under it was a dome of clammy black mud rising from the earth. It had already gobbled up the basement, and we feared it meant to rise blob-like and consume as much as it could. At that time our new director arrived (I guess I was the interim). He was that actor who plays the boss on Warehouse 13. He irked me in the dream as he does on the show, and I and the other workers were conspiring to show him as little as possible when he came, and above all to keep the dome of black mud secret.

Coffee last night with students Jon and Dayton and Jessie. There was confusion about the meeting, and I almost gave the evening up in disgust, but it did happen, and we had a merry time, closing the café around us. It’s a surprise and a delight when students want to spend time with me. E from Humanities came to my office to thank me for giving his life back to him. It seems that he had always wanted to be a writer, but his Lang 120 teacher had been so discouraging that he doubted his capacities. I gave his Humanities paper an A and praised especially the style, and he said that allowed his confidence to come flowing back, and now there’s “poems and stories all my free time.” There is something wrong with our starting writing class, which allows certain teachers to be damaging rather than helpful. What to do? The culture does not allow much probing into other professors’ methods.

Steve has not finished the wall (though he did poke at it a little one day) and Hussein’s carpets have not arrived. My chunk of Troy sits proudly by Lawrence’s tank, my iota of Troy rides in my pocket, to be shared.