radfrac_archive_full

You wouldn't think that veggie bacon could go bad, and yet. What's in it that is even made of food?

I'm having another moment when I think that the discipline of writing a journal here would be good for me, whether or not it goes anywhere, and despite the challenge of trying to write about teaching without treading on anyone's privacy, including my own.

When I try to journal without discussing teaching, the difficulty arises that I spend about 60% of my waking life thinking about teaching. The rest: stupid things like my hairline, alcohol consumption, weight, and risk of heart disease. Just occasionally, literature. Justice. What it might mean to be a conscious material being. Say 1%.

I do have a poem here, which makes three publications in a year, which must be a personal best. Total 2015 income from writing: $90.

This work, teaching, can be astoundingly good, and it has great potential to be meaningful. I am grateful to be doing it. It has already made a great deal more of me, I think, than I was a year ago.

Also there are other dreams, and I am not young.

A carton of eggs just turned a neat somersault out of the refrigerator and landed on its head. Not one egg broke. A miraclette.

I'm attending the second of three holiday dinners tonight, except that it's really the first of two, since although I got dressed up to go to my department party last night and even purchased a Secret Santa gift (calligraphy pen and two cartridges -- stipulation was under $10) -- I did not attend it, because a friend was having a very hard night, and in the end I went to spend time with her instead.

I want to be doing and making so much more of every kind of thing.

( Here is how I run an errand. )

Here I am.
Here we are.

{rf}