this month, also, has been a rush of stuff. we put one foot before the other and before we know it we're done...or almost done, as the matter now stands. truth is, there are no months, no weeks, no days. just us being here now, doing this or that. in the fog of a faith that keeps us hoping, believing in the green light. i mean....

look. i've been holding up my end, so to speak. had a few fine classes this week. the sophs are (mostly) reading and thinking and writing about The Catcher in the Rye. the juniors have been good enough sports with 20th century british/irish poetry (yeats owen eliot auden thomas larkin smith hughes heaney boland). the seniors wound themselves down with a song/poetry project for My Antonia. everybody tired. every body tired. or mine at least.

i'm not writing a lot here lately because i am not moved. some of what i've been thinking about, concerned about, wondering about is deadly dull or darker stuff. not for publication. it may be time to pick up the paper journal again. it may be time to get quiet... just shut up for awhile. find a level spot.

we'll see.

"If you was a fish, Mother Nature'd take care of you, wouldn't she? Right? You don't think them fish just die when it gets to be winter, do ya?"

Horwitz in Catcher