Tuesday, April 08, 2008


Yesterday, I accidentally read the wrong student stories for my workshop, so I wasn't prepared. That's never happened before and I don't know what I was thinking.

In addition, one student also asked if we could have workshop outside, and I declined, and she pouted in a good-natured kind of way.

So last night I dreamed I was a workshop student, and I was unprepared. I had not read all the stories under discussion. The teacher was a former professor of mine, a thin, enigmatic, intense man with curly hair. It was night, and we all sat around a huge wooden table in the middle of some woods. The trees were black-barked and bare. The sky was clear. A big full moon shone through lacy branches.

I had several thick, unread manuscripts before me.

I thought to myself, How weird, this situation, this place.

1 comment:

ggw07 said...

When we forget to do what we must, sometimes something is ajar. For the writer, this is gold. It seems your dreams are flowering. Is it the time of year? I too am dreaming intensely.



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"I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me. . . Take the soft dust in your hand--does it stir: does it sing? Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?. . ." --Conrad Aiken


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Fave Painting: Eden

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The Secret of Hurricanes : That article in the Waterville Scout said it was Shake- spearean, all that fatalism that guides the Kennedys' lives. The likelihood of untimely death. Recently, another one died in his prime, John-John in an airplane. Not long before that, Bobby's boy. While playing football at high speeds on snow skis. Those Kennedys take some crazy chances. I prefer my own easy ways. Which isn't to say my life hasn't been Shake-spearean. By the time I was sixteen, my life was like the darkened stage at the end of Hamlet or Macbeth. All littered with corpses and treachery.

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