August 24, 2023

M writes from New York that he’s putting together a “somewhat racy” memoir, and I feature in it several times. Trying to imagine. He asks if I want to see it, and I tell him to trust his best judgment. 

Cathedral choir rehearsal last night. Beforehand S and I commiserate about the fall of UNCA, not epic but tawdry and absurd. Generations of administrators so bad, and bad in the same way, that it couldn’t be merely ill luck. They’re like the Republican party, willing to say and do the most ignorant things in order to titillate a particular audience– one that does not, in fact, wish them well, and cannot contribute to the their future. It is not a university: it is presently an institution where you can buy a diploma. S declares, “I still teach The Iliad in Humanities,” implying that nobody else does. She says, “Everything Western is an anathema.” I responded in my heart with a prayer of thanksgiving that I left at exactly the right moment– or maybe a smidgen after the right moment, as I caught a whiff of the stink as I departed. 

Nevertheless, a jogging class (or something) from the university sends 12 or 13 half-naked boys past my window early in the morning. No darkness is utterly dark. 

Sat by the river, watching dogs cavort and writing most of a play. I told my hand at the outset, “don’t bother; nothing will come of it.” But it kept writing.