November 22, 2013

Dream: I lived in a city where a hidden lake lay just below the pavement. There were rumors that crocodiles had invaded the under-water. I was walking with my cat when I decided to lift a manhole cover to see if I could see a crocodile. One appeared quickly. The cat came over to sniff at the hole, and I thought nothing of it until the crocodile made a lightning lunge and swallowed my cat. I knew nothing could be done, but I refused to accept it. The rest of the dream involved vengeance against the crocodiles, and the attempt to get everyone as stirred up as I. Maud scratching (as she does) at the wall formed in my mind the image of the dream-cat scratching inside the crocodile’s belly.

To school last night to see the drama department’s Columbinus, about the Columbine massacre. The did themselves proud. There are problems with the script, but one could hardly imagine a more heartfelt and direct realization of it. My student Adam played one of the murdering boys with an intensity that would make it on Broadway. I should have stayed for Ann’s discussion afterward but my stomach wouldn’t let me. Also met an interesting man, and expert on Horton Foote, who had driven from Tennessee to see the show, but had to rush out on him too.

In our moment’s intermission chat, Ann had a story about having been precipitated to retirement by an implacable student who’d received a “D” from her, and proceeded to harass her and the Provost and even the Chancellor about it. Lawsuits were threatened. It was one of those moments when you feel you have been Ancient-Marinered, for the Provost’s having changed one of my grades (arbitrarily, it seemed to me) still rankles, still prevents me from respect for her as an administrator, but Ann’s story turns the trespass from malice to superabundance of caution, and that makes a whole lot better sense. Maybe I can leave it alone now.

The Assassination Day. I don’t know that I have feelings about the Kennedy tragedy that other people don’t have or haven’t expressed. I do remember that Mrs Otto printed a story that I wrote about it in the Hyre Hawk, which made me famous for a while. The first words of the first line were “The crimson hues of a winter dawn. . . “ I remember that. I’d say, finally,  that it was the first time I realized history could invade my little and safe life.