. . . that no matter how much time I have to get things done, I am always three days and forty bucks behind. (The forty bucks is random - the three days feels about accurate.)
Despite many very lovely invitations to Thanksgiving dinner, and a good lead on where to find some tofurkey, I ended up spending the day grading (yes, grading) and cleaning (a break from the grading). There were also many phone calls made, and the purchase of a secondhand coffee table. I only wish I could explain fully the reason I needed to replace the old one. Let's just say it involved a crooked leg, a negligent screw, and gerbil piss. My great-grandmother also figures into the equation, but let's leave the dearly departed out of it.
It is past midnight, and I am wide awake in some sort of post-vacation bliss. Let's face the reality: I have to be up at 7, and I am in complete and utter denial over that fact.
Been reading Milan Kundera's The Curtain, An Essay in Seven Parts. The man is fucking brilliant. It depresses me. In the total and complete jealous way, kind of like how I am in awe of Salmon Rushdie and his slight issues with fatwas. Anyway, Kundera reminds me of Simic when Simic talks about poetics and how he eloquently manages to make such poignant statements of opinion. So, when Kundera writes about writing he is like Simic when Simic writes about writing. What can I say, folks? It's late.
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