This pic accurately depicts what I've been looking at for the last month. Much typing. Much typing. a paper on a poem cycle I couldn't quite understand. Typing poems for workshop. Typing a book review for Sycamore Review. Assignment sheets for my poor deluded freshmen. Frantically trying to find something to do with my Long Poem project, which needs to be at 15-20 decent pages by the end of the semester. And record reviews--I've been neglecting them and now those in charge have been starting to ask questions. Not suspicious-type questions, but an APB has gone out for a disc I've held less long than others in my stack. So it appears I'll be listening to lots of classical music over the course of Thanksgiving and Winter breaks. I've gotten two reviews done since yesterday evening and hope to get another in the can before I switch gears and attenpt to come up with something halfway poetic. Much typing. Much much typing.

In other news, the weather in Indiana has been horrendous, with typical extended periods with overcast skies and cold temperatures, combined with blowing rain and leaf-clogged storm drains. My upstairs neighbor, the man of the repeated weeknight alcohol gatherings, finally went over the top with a Halloween bash on the preceding TUESDAY night, with over 15 in attendance directly over my head. Doors slamming, Madonna's "Like a Prayer" blasting, and one particularly annoying drunk undergraduate who sounded like every bad stereotype of a sorority chick, whose voice could cut glass. I heard every inane thing she said for the evening. Finally, after having my windows rattling with every hop up and down on their floor, my radio's antenna wavering to the point it would tap on the wall, I got out of bed and went to knock on the door. They were loud enough not to hear me. So I open the door and yell up the attic steps. That also is not heard. I repeat it: "It's late. Shut the hell up." Those on the upstairs landing look down at me with some curiosity. The evident host of the party arrives, wobbling, at the top of the stairs. In a rather pathetic little-kid whine, he says "but it's my BIRTHday..." I look at him a moment, taking things in. "Happy birthday. Shut the hell up."

After some further discussion, I went back to my room, with earplugs in and both fans on high. After another half hour I was able to get some sleep. He's been fairly good about being quiet since then. That goddamned subwoofer he has. I mean, who in their right mind would buy a subwoofer when one lives in an apartment, aside from outright intent to annoy one's neighbors? Bass frequencies that low carry through fan noise and even earplugs. I've tried it. nothing will keep that out. The whole apartment would vibrate. Little bastard.

In happier news, now that I've written my paper on John Berryman, finished the book review, and such, all I have to do is to write and revise poetry and do record reviews for the next month and a half. I'll be famous. All over the Interweb. It's all part of my insidious plan to take over the worrrld.