Someday my prince will come
Tuesday December 22nd 2015, 1:42 am
Filed under: himself Tags:

The Miles Davis version was on the radio,a year ago, at 5 am or so. A longer letter to himself soon, but for now, a vigorous wave, a voice in octaves and timbres above the norm, and unbelievable love.

Sunday December 13th 2015, 2:15 pm
Filed under: family,holidays Tags:

A wasted life? Or just a wasted end to his life? So afraid. So very afraid. He’s fucking terrified of dying, and is driving everyone away and destroying the last crumbs of what might be meaningful in his wreck of a life to hold on to not-dying. Helen, my dead friend, you were remarkable in many ways, but in this one, too – you looked at the end, and looked back over your life, and made it make enough sense that you could be something other than just afraid. Toni, too, made her choice, and lived more in that last year than I think this fucker has for years and years. A life on repeat, shambolic and a shaming, shambling, shuffle. Piss-stained and pathetic. Wasted.

Must be the holidays.

speech intentions
Friday December 04th 2015, 12:19 pm
Filed under: Miscellaneous, Truly Tags:

or dream visions. I’ve been meaning to write here, but it took a small flood of spam comments to actually get me here. Daylight so bright for TPT, the days of mid-morning urgent updates in Oxford and London lifetimes ago.

An hour-long meeting to do maybe 7 minutes worth of work. Extra office hours because I do actually want them to be better writers, and time is the only thing that works to accomplish that. I begrudge it, slightly, but not so much that I’m not here.

Holidays, with a much smaller person. Interesting. Or not. Back to ticking of the endless list of endless trivial trivialities and banal banalities. Last day of instruction, though I finished yesterday. They clapped, I hemmed and hawed and spoke of the Manciple’s Tale and the shootings, of how language matters. I felt both hopeful and powerless at the end, but the emphatic triumph of a quarter-well-taught rather diminished from, say, my first years here. Unsurprisingly, really, that the relief is one of a job well done, rather than some novel accomplishment. And thus the years grind down the sharp edges.