I'm sitting in my office at the university, trying to gather some energy for teaching my night class. I have classical music playing (Mozart), and, after I'm done blogging, I'm going to walk down the hall and get my dinner out of the English Department's fridge. Chicken sandwich.
If you can't tell, I'm struggling right now. I've been up since 4:45 this morning, so the prospect of another six hours of work is not very appealing. Perhaps I will put my head down on my desk for a little while. Try to nap.
I'm not complaining. This is my life. I'm used to it. When I woke up this morning, I hated everyone. If I were a dog, I would have hid under the bed and bitten anyone who came near me. I'm still feeling like that. A little.
Saint Marty needs to make peace with his day, or his students are not going to have a good night.
Mean Particles
by: John Ashbery
Sometimes something like a second
washes the base of this street.
The father and his two assistants
are given permission to go.
One of them, a woman, asks, "Why
did we come here in the first place,
to this citadel of dampness?"
Some days are worse than others,
even if we can't believe in them.
But that was never a concern of mine,
reasoned the patient.
Sing, scroll, or never be blasted by us
into marmoreal meaning, or the fist for it.
Kudos to the prince who journeyed here
to negotiate our release, if you can believe it.
You're right. The ballads are retreating
back into the atmosphere.
They won't be coming round again.
Make your peace.
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