When I finish my syllabi I will write a Fulbright letter and we will work on materials for Asymptote.
I have greater problems with anxiety, and also with lack of voice, than I knew–and these problems are related. Here in California, with the mountains, redwoods, seas, I have perspective and do not experience these problems, but in the swamps of Louisiana, I do.
Tomorrow I have to work on: poetry selections for the new publication, the contact lens order, the notary.
I still need to get the car adjusted, but I also need swimsuits. I think of my swimsuits as new, but they are falling apart. Again. It seems that this is all so recent, I bought new ones in 2009 and again in 2013. There are so many things one must keep track of nowadays. The dust on the closet floors and under the beds, and the strange chemicals I have learned to use against the damp.
I feel peaceful. It is not a normal feeling anymore. It has to do with not trying to rush at work, or work beyond fatigue, or work with people who will not. I can do this because I have decided I am a professor.
Oh fury the dawn emerges from your lips
The scandalous life of César Moro
Various lions lick the rugose surface of the equestrian turtle at twilight
Under editorial consideration:
About seven more.
That is what I wrote on my ticket to the national art museum in Latvia, while looking at socialist realist painting.
I learned about Nationalist Modernism that day, and the National Constructivism of Romans Suta. I saw how the St. Petersburg institution where painters were trained, had constrained them. The museum also had a wonderful set of posters for its own exhibits, going back almost a hundred years.