Have been grading qualitative research papers for the past ninety-nine hours.  Am rather more sure than ever that teaching, this wearing of nice pants and looking people confidently in the eye, this carrying file folders to and fro, saying things like, You have some great ideas here, Do you have any other questions? and Won’t be holding office hours, When are you available, Just come by my office, See you in class, it’s all got to stop.

And the things you write: Punctuation goes inside quotation marks, Punctuation goes inside quotation marks, Punctuation goes inside quotation marks.  Cite this source, What do you mean?  Be clear, Phrased awkwardly, be clear, please, please, be clear.

On my way to my office, I pass a construction site where massive cranes raise and lower beams, great hollow pipes.  The city would look so different from that great height.  That’s what I think about.  And everywhere I go, from my house in the dark of the morning to the car, from the trolley stop to the stadium, mockingbirds are singing their crazy songs.  It doesn’t, as the Mad Farmer would say, compute.  Mockingbirds do a thousand things every day that don’t compute.  I would like to.

(Do you ever get so tired of the news that you want to live in space?  I’m thinking of Dr. Manhattan from Watchmen, who needed to go to Mars.)

One of my goals for my new life is to be less productive.  While still constantly learning.  To be ungrammatical, while not telling other people to be grammatical.  To be more beautiful, and wear less makeup.  To be less virtually real, and more actually real.

“One evening—while out walking in the evening—someone found, deep down, a tiny little evening.  And its name was good evening.”

(I’m also captivated by Tristan Tzara’s The Gas Heart.  As perhaps you can see from my wish to be ungrammatical, and to be clear, to be clear, to be more and eminently, evermore clear.)