Kids down on McKinley Ave. have set up their net and are zipping around on roller blades, cracking sticks on the asphalt. Every now and then a little cheer rises. I'm listening to Kronos attack quartets by the late Alfred Schnittke, which might be just the right soundtrack for street hockey. This room gets hot in the late afternoon sun. I've got my door open and the fan blowing out.

Friday evening. Prom night. I was never quite clear on the concept of Prom. I didn't attend my senior prom, though I did survive the thoroughly uncomfortable night of my junior prom, Spring 1967. I went with Sally K. - a very nice, smart girl - smarter than I thought I'd ever be - who seemed to expect that I would know how to navigate us through the evening's events. Poor girl. I don't remember many details beyond the funereal odor of corsage and buttoniere, the dreadful sense that I was getting it all wrong, the impossible conversation over dinner at the wrong restaurant, the embarassing kiss goodnight and goodbye. Really no fun at all.

My friend Sr. Grace has sent me the program and awards list from JCA's honors convocation on Wednesday night, which stirs up messy feelings. These seniors were my last class there. I recognize each of their names and can see their faces. I run through the list of faculty and staff members and can call up each of their faces - except for those new this year. A sharp twinge of that old feeling sneaks up, bushwhacks me. It's the way an exile feels, cut off from what is most familiar. But this is ridiculous; I am not in exile. I am not pining away for the good old days of JCA - they were just as conflicted as any now always is. I am living my life here among good people, having my good days still.

I received my classes for next year. I lose the freshmen. it looks like two American Lit. (grade 10) two British Lit. (grade 11) and one AP English Literature and Composition (grade 12). So I seem nicely spread out across the board. Three preps - two brand new - will keep me off of the streets. I'm going to have to brush up my Shakespeare - and my Keats and my Donne and my Blake and my Yeats and.... You could probably make a strong case for the notion that English literature - writing from the island itself - has been in trouble since WWII. Can you name the present Poet Laureate - the one after Ted Hughes? I sure can't - and I even looked it up and found it a few months ago; it didn't stick. Who are the contemporary British writers worth reading? Haven't a clue. Angela Carter is dead. So is I've never read either Amis. British Lit. is HISTORY. Of course, I'm also willing to entertain the possibility that U.S. Lit. has seen better days. Where is it really happening? It's also very possible that I have just sunk down into a hole with the very few authors I know and have not kept up with the latest. This is certainly true. I read at tortoise speed.

The AP class will be a challenge because I get to design it pretty much by myself, choose my own texts. This is daunting, especially since so much apparently needs to be ordered before this school year ends.

The street is quiet now. All the kids are gone. The raucous Schnittke quartets are finished, too. Listen to that fan hum. Listen to that one bird.