April 19, 2013

Cool under the slightly opened windows. Kevin was singing late last afternoon. Phlebitis manifested itself as an almost opiated exhaustion throughout the morning– I went to school, but lay back in my chair and slept– until I caught on and began taking the pills. Each time it is a little different, until that point when it becomes the same. Roused myself to go downtown for a reading I had agreed to do for a book, or a project, called Poetry in My Pocket. Club soda at the vault, where the bartender looked like he was on the verge of sobs. He held off while I was there. We’d been asked to present brief poems, and I recited Herbert and Millay. The ubiquitous Soniat read, as did many I didn’t know, and we were all delightful, I hope. Emoke recited a quite beautiful Hungarian poem, beautiful in its music, as, of course, I had no idea what it said. Emoke scolded me for publishing e-books. I understand her point of view, and refrained from retorting, “How many of my books have you sold in the past year?” I wish the whole publishing house/bookstore thing had worked for me, but it didn’t. In that arena, I’m a drowning man grasping for something to bear me up.

Decided, antibiotics or no, to have a wine before going home, and was strolling toward the wine bar when I passed Southern and saw my students sitting around a table, the same students whose invitation to dinner I had to refuse because of the reading. Dalton. Jon. Justin, Brittany, later Grace. Chit chat, gossip, tales of classes and dates gone awry. It was a blessing. It was exactly what I needed. I hope it was well for them, too, as I arrived just as their checks did, and they lingered for me.

Lively, happy dreams. In the one I remember best I was in bed with my student who now runs Rock Hill, SC. We were inventive and merry lovers, and I think I must have laughed aloud in my sleep.