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Archives 1999

June 1
I know it's June now and you've probably been checking in here all day to see what great new thing I've got for this month, but the truth is: I've just been too damn busy to get it together. So hold yr horses. Once I get these lovely semester exams graded, and once tomorrow's 10 a.m. deadline passes for all of my slacker weasels to turn in their way way pitifully overdue response notebooks, and once I read all those sterling masterpieces, and once I plug all these bits of grades into my SuperDooper Grade Synthesizer, and once I get these results dumped into the Deluxe Universal Grade Dispenser - then, maybe then, we can go sailing off on the bright blue sea of words again. I would like that.

June 2
You wouldn't believe what I've been doing for kicks. So I'm not even going to tell you. Not yet, anyway. I'm still planning on getting back to the regular, longer entries as soon as I manage to push this school year off the cliff's edge and can stand up here watching it tumble in flames down to the rocky shore - just like in a thousand bad movies. Maybe Monday. Yes, Monday should do it.

June 5
So. I know I said Monday would do it, but look. Here it is Monday - and I did turn in my grades and empty my classroom, and all that - but I'm feeling like a used up something or other... not sick, but tired. I always love and hate when school stops. The last two weeks or so are a great wild romp, a sudden push to the finish line, and then - what? Nothing? No, not nothing, but definitely different. The thing by which you have defined your life on a most intimate daily level has vanished. Don't get me wrong. I'm not sitting in my room growling at the walls - I've got plenty to do. Buy some cat food, some toothpaste, some soap. Get the Grendex up and running - that's what I've been doing for kicks - as if there were an urgent need? No, there is no urgent need - it's one of those intensely admirable, useless things. And then there are books to read. Books.... books.... books.... Which one first?

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
Oscar Wilde

 

 

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