February 21, 2014

Rain on the roof. Though a few items remain, yesterday was the last big haul from 62, all remaining clothes in still shocking quantities. When the truck was right loaded up, I turned the key and discovered that the battery had, at that very moment, died. The urge to fly into a rage died within me, also, after a moment’s struggle, and I got the Prius, and in a state of suppressed fury loaded all that had been in the bed of the truck into the back of the car, and made the trip anyway. I said to each wayward hanger, “Let there be an end.”  Into which day a hole can be punched waiting for AAA I’m not sure.

The other side of the Humanities affair is, of course, that a tyro administrator, instead of considering legitimate concerns about questionable decisions, turned on the inquirer with resentments built up, clearly, from other times, a tyro administrator who had neither the right nor the authority to say the things he said when he said them, even if he believed them to be true. I will try not to say this if the matter comes up again. I will stick with my bewildered contrition, which is genuine, if not quite the whole story.

My poor truck, easing into the mud, his bed filling with rainwater, far away . . . .