September 7, 2018

Crashing like a runaway diesel into the weekend. I believe my classes so far have been successful. Not many sleepers even at 8 AM. The playwrights are unexpectedly eager. I stand and present the things that delight me, hoping they too will take delight.  Because of Miss Jill one replays one’s statements after class, weighing them to see if by some remote chance something maybe be distorted so as to seem sexist or exclusionary. The Inquisition comes to Academia, and we dare not even call it by that name. What complicates that issue is that one agrees with and upholds the stated goals of the very apparatus that torments one. But it goes too far, and takes “you’re going too far” as an admission of guilt.

Bought mass quantities of bulbs to force myself to reduce the outside of the fence to order.

One of the cleaning ladies stops me and says “Thank you for reporting the broken elevator. We reported it every morning, but they never listened to us.”

Sat beside the canoe-expedition-leading giant who just joined Cantaria. He is one of our straight men. He asked, “Why did you throw away all the good will and recognition built up by Cantaria and change the name?” I did my best not to say, “THAT, my friend, is the $64,000 question.” He has a magnificent deep speaking voice, but I didn’t hear a single note out of him during rehearsal. Maybe getting ready– Wanted to skip rehearsal, but ended up having a good time.

Thoughts rush through the head. At night dreaming dreams of astonishing vividness. Have not written in any systematic way since school began. Maybe tonight. I am sitting in the writing chair right now, so if I can just keep sitting--

Every day of lingering summer I bless. The moon last night was the thinnest possible crescent hung over Merrimon Avenue.  Late summer roses in bloom.