a great red hawk taunted and repelled by a tiny black bird may not, in fact, have been a great red hawk. i didn't have my glasses on. but i can assert that there was something reddish about the bird. and it may not have been great by any absolute standard, but it was pretty big up against that little black bird. i was stumbling around the track, craning my neck to watch the aerial show. before long the hawk flew off. yesterday.

today i didn't have many chances to watch for birds. after a quick trip out to purchase a copy of 1984, some music, and (without luck) a copy of The Oxford American's annual southern music edition, i came back to my room... and here you would find me all day. reading. finishing The Cherry Orchard and continuing Pullman's completely amazing, oddly disturbing, The Amber Spyglass. took a breather later this afternoon to listen to new music from Lucinda Williams (Essence) and "new" music from Leonard Cohen (the '79 uk tour Field Commander Cohen)...both are fine by me.

i'm trying to think in a more concrete way about my upcoming courses. (there is no summer. summer is a cruel fiction.) they each need an overhaul...reading-wise, asssignment-wise, grade-wise.

brush the cat.

What you have to do is enter the fiction of America, enter America as fiction. It is, indeed, on this fictive basis that it dominates the world.

Jean Baudrillard