"But ah'm not afraid of dyin'. Cause I know that when I get to heaven there are gonna be these wonderful trees, and ah'm gonna climb them. But you know what? Instead of leaves and flowers, those trees are gonna have fried eggs, and delicious Virginia ham, and big heaping bowls of biscuits and sausage gravy. And one day, Sammy, you're gonna meet me there, and we're gonna climb those breakfast trees together, and it's gonna be delicious and we're gonna be happy until the end of time."


Got the Ebb/Got the Flow

I've been absent of late. My apologies.

Suddenly I'm back on the train, and it's moving faster than before. There are days, such as yesterday, when my every movement is fraught with meaning, where the simple act of eating lunch gives way to an impromptu speech to the entire dining hall that was supposed to be made by someone else, where I make fourteen phone calls to three time zones in my "spare" time, and where making my way to the car after class takes an hour and a half, and requires "touching base" with no less than five people, and a great many exchanges of paper. Where did all this responsibility come from? I signed nothing, there was no campaign. I didn't even pay my dues or attend any meetings.

And then there are days like today. When I run myself ragged only to be denied again and again. Find the card so you can get the contract, unbox the work, find the slides, re-box the work, e-mail the dean, don't forget to get the contract. The person with the contract is out until two-thirty, race to class, class is cancelled. Contract? Who told you you needed a contract? You don't need a contract until next fall. You only found one slide? What about digital images? Could you burn a disk.? No, nevermind, looks like we missed this one. You should be concentrating on your own work. The work you keep dropping on the floor in front of the glory hole. Yeah, that work. Oh, and the dean's e-mail got returned somehow, so we need to do it again. Hotter, faster, more direct.

At least I can count on my trusty Margarita and bath at the end of the day. My Margarita will never make me un-official co-president of the Visual Arts Society, or train as an alternate for the outreach program, or ask for a full list of pros and cons of various colors and tools, or engage me in a heated debate about sandblast resists. No, it will simply get a little saltier with each sip, until it puts the sea to shame. My bath will temporarily ease the burden of gravity, and winter, but it will turn cold soon after, and I'll pay special attention to how my body sinks as it drains away, and lie there heavy and freezing, until it occurs to me there might be something better.