six hundredth post
Monday 10 September 2007 | I like a cookie
It’s nearly nine and the Brujo is still asleep, wrapped up like a mummy in the bedsheet. We were up late, him reading aloud to me for my magical realism course. Not The Metamorphosis, which gives him the willies, but Clarice Lispector’s minutely savage “The Smallest Woman in the World” (translated by Elizabeth Bishop!) and one of his own favorites, Borges’ “The Aleph.” Then of course we had to anatomize these thoroughly until God knows when, and I’d probably still be asleep too but for the fact that Ms. Pyewacket got restless around seven. (Her now belly-up on the carpeting, looking at me coyly through slitted eyes.) Thus cornflakes, more reading, padding around the house as quietly as possible, and now this. Which I never promised would be the most thrilling post in the world, but lurchingly I rebegin somewhere. Still umpteen dreadful papers on which to comment, still comp pedagogy articles to read and respond to, and more germanely, a poem to finish for workshop with Walt tonight. Assault a strawberry, it has problems of its own. The cat won’t come inside. How much sense do I absolutely have to make.
post your glowing encomium (or bitter philippic) »
Follow this heated, lively discussion through its very own feed; also, you can pingback or trackback from your own doubtlessly much more interesting site.
