December 14, 2016

Vehement students attack works we’ve done in class for not conforming to their world view. Someone somewhere along the line persuaded them that prejudice is an actual critical strategy, that an artifact’s not honoring one’s illusions is a form of disrespect. I do not try to correct. I ride it out.

Good days in the studio. Ray hammered nails into the brick of the entrance hall so I could hang some of my work along with the others’.  I’ve worked for years and produced rather little. But I haven’t worked like Ray or Steve, who are there full work days, every day.

Dry, hoarse throat. I can hardly speak. It doesn’t look well for the Cantaria concerts. Almost faint after the long lines of the Lauridson.

Began composing Cantos.

Emotional roller coaster. I think this happens every Christmas break, and I forget about it from one year to the next.

Nine handsome men at one table in the High Five this morning as I ate my toast and sipped my cappuccino and wrote my poem. An environment can be too rich. One doesn’t know where to look. They were having some sort of business meeting, and were not only handsome but sharp and well dressed. One woman was present at a table over by the window. She stroked her boyfriend’s back as he read.

The nursery people inform me that they’re shipping my sassafras now. It will be my Christmas tree from now on if it lives.