Critique week is over. It's
already Sunday morning.
It's Saturday night, early
in the morning. Every window
pane rattled singing, barely
restrained. I've still got a
paper to write. Only one for
finals. Because I already
wrote a novel this semester.
It's called "the Life of Cold,"
and I've disowned the sense
that any protagonist isn't me.
I may or may not have an
assignment due on Monday
for the History of Photography.
I only had to write two pages
about my place in this world
of art. And attend lectures
every Monday. For sixteen
weeks. Minus two when Alan
was in Russia. And two I skipped,
or three. Literature theory
is the class I've got to write the
paper for. I don't know it.
Or anything. I've got to find an
article on jstor to compare
with something we read this
semester. I've got to re-write
a chapter of the book for the
reading in two weeks. I don't
know which one I'll use. I've
got to call the bank, a third
time. I've got to find a new
place to live, and new people
to live there with. My room-
mates are all going home.
Callie is going to Seattle, Vinnie
is going back to Portland in
Oregon. Dania's here with me.
