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Without my intellect, I'd be a puddle of desire, dribbling from mall to mall in search of something more to soak me up. I was thinking about this as I drove in search of - what? A reading chair? A book? A dependable waste basket? Yes. I returned home with this wonderful cheap plastic container, elegantly designed by some Italian in the People's Republic of... You could probably measure my work today, but I would be embarassed. I fiddled too much with The Closet, read too little (in Koch, not Heidegger), paid too much attention to the cat (as she might say), listened too seriously to Cecilia Bartoli, who's still singing now. Had a nice, too short, phone call from Sr. Grace...the first non-computer, non-family contact with Joliet since I left. I jogged my three miles with a cool evening attitude...and sweat a little. But, oh, it's summertime and I know this indolence can only last a few weeks longer. Soon it will be school stuff, meeting all these new people (who do not know they are new but are only feeling old...an ocean of possibilities), journal assignments, reading, reading, reading...figuring how to handle grammar, conferring with my colleagues, writing with students, getting them to read and to be new, too, along with me. Well, if I wasn't thinking about all of this what would I be doing? Staring at television? Buying stuff? I don't know. Have I mentioned how much I love Cecilia Bartoli? She makes my good old Irish-Italian American toes want to sing. She makes the ghost of my hair wish it had stuck around for the show. She reminds me of one of my favorite nieces who, to my knowledge, doesn't sing that much but should give it a try anyway...simply because she reminds me of the great Cecilia Bartoli. But is this really thinking?
It's not logical. It's not the kind of thinking you get in conversation
with some people I know. It's not German-philosopher-thinking
or National-Council-of-Teachers-of-English- Happy Birthday, Pat. |
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George Bush |