You fans of this blog, I was saying--snowy hello to you, Uncle Pete and Aunt Daisy--yearn after my Loco Log, the story of shinny I played on winter streets in Herbert, some poem I'd killed and brought back to life. My usual topics, in other words.
Instead I carry on this way: re my job, and when I might quit, if I do. To help you understand my predicament, here's the roster for tonight: go over notes of talks students gave on Part Two of On the Road; compile decisions about word, sentence, punctuation made in a set of lovely essays; figure out what to do with "It Wasn't a Major Operation" by Anne Szumigalski (whatever it takes to convey that poems do things). These classes in 40 hours coming up, they're all a good time.
What's tougher is the task of getting to it.
Hate to end on such an ominous note, though. This morning a student stopped by the office for a bit of business then said he'd like to stay a little longer to talk about On the Road. He was digging the book, and he asked me when I first encountered it.
(I couldn't remember. When I was 17, I'm going to say. The Beats, especially Kerouac, took me deep.)
And here's maybe the best part: he's a Science major, near the end of his program, but he'd like to try my creative writing intro class next semester. I asked him if he'd ever written anything and he said no! But he'll be good in the class, because he's ready.
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