December 7, 2018

Pearl Harbor. Last exam. All but two isolated grades in.

Dabbling on Ancestory.com– my great grandparents had two sons named Jasper, each of whom lived not quite a year. Guess they stopped trying for Jasper. Another son who died young and six daughters who lived forever, many of whom I new.  There is a door a long way behind me. I want to go backward, walk through it, and this time try to remember everything.

The Christmas cacti in my university office are blooming, one flamingo, one magenta. Just as I leave for a month.

Probably New Year’s Resolutions

1. Stop wasting time on manufactured outrage. Purge it from yourself, have no patience with it in others.

2. You know after an exchange or two what discussions are trivial and time-wasting. Sign off.

3. Ignore the non-life-threatening errors of others as you would have them ignore yours.

4. Clarity straightens and smooths all roads. Practice it.

5. You’d love to allow emotion to overwhelm reason, conviction to trump evidence. In public matters, though, this is the root of cruelty. Don’t do it. Don’t countenance it.

6. Don’t assign blame in situations where your own understanding is imperfect.

7. Don’t worry about working outside the box. The box is an illusion.

8. Never be ashamed to nap.

9. Kindness rewards the kind and baffles the cruel. Practice it.

10. It is an odd truth the giving almost never impoverishes you, however much you fear it might. Keep this in mind. Keep your hand open. 

In the world of surprises: Ramsey Library wants to give me a show in February, and John Crutchfield will be directing Father Abraham for Sublime. Saw neither of those coming. Look behind for looming shadows. See none at the moment. Rejoice.

December 6, 2018

Gave one exam, finished off one class. Cooked a pot roast against the possibility of oncoming blizzard. My guess is that it will never happen, or be less awesome than is foretold, but if it is its worst, I have a cooked meal that will last at least three days. Bush buried with the absolute maximum of maudlin sentiment in broadcast media, bitter reaction and revulsion in social media. Crows behaving oddly in the sky overhead.

December 5, 2018

Back to the Racquet Club in the dark of the morning. Ran 1/3 of a mile and did my weights. I could have done more. And still I rise. Sat in the café and wrote on Jason. Fluffy snow flew into my headlights as I drove.

The department sailed through a potentially acrimonious meeting yesterday. Nothing much was agreed upon, but incipient grievances were aired and dissipated. I am proud of us. We may be the only department on campus in which there has not been, in my tenure, inner upheaval. 

The news headlines on television have been 1) the death of George H W Bush and 2) a big snowfall which is not expected until Saturday night. North Buncombe schools closed today because it is cold. The gleeful TV weathermen revel in having, for once, the headline. 

As for Bush, most of my Facebook contact revile him and gag at the chorus of praise heaped on him officially at his death. I tend to forget how evil people are. What I remember about the first Gulf War was that on the night it was declared I was listening to it on the radio while driving to Fletcher to spend the night with Carol. He had a tiny kitten then who found places to join in while we made love. I suppose that will never be in the history books.

December 4, 2018

Easing into vacation mode, though the semester is not nearly done.

Each time I receive a letter from Red Hen Press, I initially dread that it’s a letter canceling my contract, because of the libel on Wikipedia. Has not been so far.

High Five writing early this morning. I was able to break through blockages in poetry and in Jason of the Apes. 

December 3, 2018

A mood came upon me, and when it was over, I had erected and decorated TWO Christmas trees. One has only ornaments in the shape of animals. Energy held through it all.  Most places are sold out of trees that are not gigantic, a shortage cause by I forget what. Forest fires? The recession too deep in 2008 for people to plant the trees they’d need ten years later? The Magnetic published its schedule, and In the Assassins’ Garden is set for June.

December 2, 2018

Chanukah. First Sunday of Advent, a day of spring in mid-winter, quite lovely, quite a tease in the midst of the Hibernian days to come. Did a little writing in the morning, but some energy in the air is not conducive to prolonged application.

Considering Miss Z B-S’s accusations. Once I dig beneath the hysterical and insane, the pure libel, I find fury at my taste in theater. I research and see I gave her a B in playwriting. I believe that is the root of it. Otherwise, there is no root at all.

December 1, 2018

Minor discouragement: publication date for The Falls of the Wyona set back to May.

Drove to Biltmore Village last night to see Simone’s chapeaux. Traffic insane. Landed in the middle of the annual Dickens Festival. Cold rain, but sweet nevertheless. I remembered wandering alone through night streets, absorbing that magic of Christmas, happy as a little god. I’m glad I can still do this, but I didn’t imagine I would be alone forever.