Spiders and Slumber

Woke from a dream [I'd keyed myself into my brother's house and then started organizing things in the bed of his pickup truck, then walked back in to put the keys away, only to hear him still in the house, likely wondering what in hell I was doing] and began reading the last 4 pages of The Gold Bug by Poe when I saw movement along the edge of the quilt I had shrugged up to my shoulder. This is what it was. The spiders have taken to sleeping with me, it appears. After saying several nonsensical words which sounded like Daffy Duck on slow playback, I slunk out from under the covers and got a glass and trapped him. Bleah. After taking a couple of pictures, I took him out past the driveway and dumped him into the grass. I then finished up on The Gold Bug, which, after 3 attempts in junior high school, I never got all the way through. I'll have to see whether I can do that with Joyce's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. It isn't that I don't think it isn't a good book. It's just that it's so easy to put down and not pick back up again.



Tomorrow I head back to the Hallowed Hall of Heav for the final weeks of the semester. This is my floor. On a Sunday. No students. I do find it rather difficult to concentrate on work while there, even on quiet days. After all, there's the Internet. The soda machines with Fresca, the Nectar O' the Gods. The junkfood machine with its lovely spinning snack spirals. The latest issue of The Exponent to ridicule. etc. But I doubt I do much better here at home, where I've got far more distractions. I've got papers to grade and a letter to write. And reviews to type. Oh, scratch most of that--just realized I still have two poems to write for workshop. I think I have a rough draft of something somewhere.


My floors are getting dusty. And I really need to strip the wax off my kitchen floor. It's grody-looking. Nothing like the magic of creative avoidance, which makes household chores wondrous in comparison to the task of grading papers.

Oh well. Back to work.