On snowfall and wool socks in March...
And so, yet again, I've not done my best at keeping up with this journal...
Here in Milledgeville, GA, it's been a long, long winter. With perhaps only four or five real exceptions since early November, the cold weather has reigned supreme. Each morning, around seven, I wake up and mutter prayers that my weather widget will report something better than a painful sixteen degrees. Most times, it does not. I'm pretty sick of it. I tire of wearing layers--fleece and wool and hats and gloves. The thought of running even one more day in this bullshit cold is enough to make me shiver. Sometimes it gets so soul-crushingly frosty that I fear my penis will fall off. I wish that was an exaggeration. To counter this inclemency, I often fantasize about sprinting the dunes of some far-off desert, the sun blaring above me, my skin tanned and drenched in sweat. God, that'd be the best. Part of me thinks I should suck it up and stop grousing. After all, spring is on the way, and I could be living up North, where the climate is even worse. But this icebox world is no place for me. I mean, for Christ's sake, I live ninety miles south of Atlanta and it snowed today. In March. After just one tough winter, dreams of moving someplace like Chicago or even New York now strike me as pretty illogical. They say you get used to it, but I'm not so sure. Maybe I'm destined for a lifetime in the South.
This semester has been largely a success. As mentioned in a previous entry, I'm teaching two classes: ENGL 1102, intro to writing about literature; and ENGL 4999, the Capstone seminar in creative writing (multi-genre). While both are going well, the former has proven to be a real joy. The class, which meets twice a week and is comprised of twenty-three freshmen, is basically an hour-and-a-half jam session of talking about great short stories and poems. We'll close with a few weeks on Cormac McCarthy's "The Road." I've been blessed with a group of kids whose curiosity for what we're reading seems genuine, and many of our conversations have run rings around my expectations. I love watching them work out a selection's meaning--the way their eyes widen as they gape at one another in a shared moment of awe. To them, literature is a puzzle, and when that final piece falls into place--well, it's magic. It's as if they've become a part of something bigger. Teaching is rewarding, that's for sure. I enjoy it enough to say that I wouldn't mind making it my career. Saying that affords me a real sense of comfort.
My other class, 4999, sees me at the helm of thirteen seniors, all of whom are scheduled to graduate this fall with degrees in creative writing. Thanks to their being almost done with college, a number of them are less motivated that I'd anticipated, but I can't say that this surprises me. Having to remind them so often of their deadlines and meetings can be rather tedious, but, in the end, it's fun to teach creative writing. I sit at the head of the table during workshops, and my thoughts close the discussion. It makes me feel old and a little bit wise, neither of which describe me precisely.
Overall, I'd say that I'm happy. Although I'm poor and often bored with Milledgeville's social scene, I'm healthy and hard-working. School don't cost a cent, and I'm slowly becoming a decent writer. Time keeps playing its usual games. The spring term feels sucked-dry of anything too inspirational, but in this ennui the days and weeks and months zoom onward. It seems like just yesterday I was flipping the calendar on my wall from January to February, and all of a sudden it's March. In a few weeks, I'll fly to Texas for a low-key spring break at my mother's new home. It's large and posh with amenities, not the least of which is a swimming pool. In some measure, this little jaunt (which proved more cost-effective than another trip to Baton Rouge) will be a preview of the summer to come, during which I'll live at home for the first time since 2004. My goal is pretty simple: live cheap, write a ton, travel when I can, and, most of all, relax. I'll need to secure a part-time job and I'm thinking about giving up cigarettes, neither of which sounds super-pleasant, but both are manageable. Anyhow, that's the plan.
There is, of course, more to say, more to report. But spending any longer on this entry seems daunting, so I guess I'll leave it here.
Here in Milledgeville, GA, it's been a long, long winter. With perhaps only four or five real exceptions since early November, the cold weather has reigned supreme. Each morning, around seven, I wake up and mutter prayers that my weather widget will report something better than a painful sixteen degrees. Most times, it does not. I'm pretty sick of it. I tire of wearing layers--fleece and wool and hats and gloves. The thought of running even one more day in this bullshit cold is enough to make me shiver. Sometimes it gets so soul-crushingly frosty that I fear my penis will fall off. I wish that was an exaggeration. To counter this inclemency, I often fantasize about sprinting the dunes of some far-off desert, the sun blaring above me, my skin tanned and drenched in sweat. God, that'd be the best. Part of me thinks I should suck it up and stop grousing. After all, spring is on the way, and I could be living up North, where the climate is even worse. But this icebox world is no place for me. I mean, for Christ's sake, I live ninety miles south of Atlanta and it snowed today. In March. After just one tough winter, dreams of moving someplace like Chicago or even New York now strike me as pretty illogical. They say you get used to it, but I'm not so sure. Maybe I'm destined for a lifetime in the South.
This semester has been largely a success. As mentioned in a previous entry, I'm teaching two classes: ENGL 1102, intro to writing about literature; and ENGL 4999, the Capstone seminar in creative writing (multi-genre). While both are going well, the former has proven to be a real joy. The class, which meets twice a week and is comprised of twenty-three freshmen, is basically an hour-and-a-half jam session of talking about great short stories and poems. We'll close with a few weeks on Cormac McCarthy's "The Road." I've been blessed with a group of kids whose curiosity for what we're reading seems genuine, and many of our conversations have run rings around my expectations. I love watching them work out a selection's meaning--the way their eyes widen as they gape at one another in a shared moment of awe. To them, literature is a puzzle, and when that final piece falls into place--well, it's magic. It's as if they've become a part of something bigger. Teaching is rewarding, that's for sure. I enjoy it enough to say that I wouldn't mind making it my career. Saying that affords me a real sense of comfort.
My other class, 4999, sees me at the helm of thirteen seniors, all of whom are scheduled to graduate this fall with degrees in creative writing. Thanks to their being almost done with college, a number of them are less motivated that I'd anticipated, but I can't say that this surprises me. Having to remind them so often of their deadlines and meetings can be rather tedious, but, in the end, it's fun to teach creative writing. I sit at the head of the table during workshops, and my thoughts close the discussion. It makes me feel old and a little bit wise, neither of which describe me precisely.
Overall, I'd say that I'm happy. Although I'm poor and often bored with Milledgeville's social scene, I'm healthy and hard-working. School don't cost a cent, and I'm slowly becoming a decent writer. Time keeps playing its usual games. The spring term feels sucked-dry of anything too inspirational, but in this ennui the days and weeks and months zoom onward. It seems like just yesterday I was flipping the calendar on my wall from January to February, and all of a sudden it's March. In a few weeks, I'll fly to Texas for a low-key spring break at my mother's new home. It's large and posh with amenities, not the least of which is a swimming pool. In some measure, this little jaunt (which proved more cost-effective than another trip to Baton Rouge) will be a preview of the summer to come, during which I'll live at home for the first time since 2004. My goal is pretty simple: live cheap, write a ton, travel when I can, and, most of all, relax. I'll need to secure a part-time job and I'm thinking about giving up cigarettes, neither of which sounds super-pleasant, but both are manageable. Anyhow, that's the plan.
There is, of course, more to say, more to report. But spending any longer on this entry seems daunting, so I guess I'll leave it here.