Questo, e questo; París, y 4, y 5

Hoy le ha entrado una astilla. Me viene, hay días, una gana ubérrima, política. These are the poems I would like to present this week.

That pain that is so often just below the surface. “You are in crisis,” someone said. “You are so calm and meditative,” said another. “You are in a panic,” said a third. But it is that pain just below the surface, that I want to pull out.

*

Hazards of professordom were said to be publication requirements and snow, but the malevolent environments were not mentioned. And it was the malevolence, not research or weather, that made me want to leave. But my mother hated me for what I had done already, and if I did another thing like that, another career, advanced degree, I might never be able to make it up to her. The story might go something like that. I was to repeat her unhappiness; I have done. I should end that.

If I worked at a place that had sabbaticals I would be coming up for one right now. It would be a collegial place, with research resources, and sabbatical would not mean salary reduction. I would still go to campus and the town would be friendly, and I would take small research trips.

That is really all it is. A marginally collegial environment including marginally collegial collaboration (as opposed to war) on teaching, and research time. And calm — I really do not like jerking from one political crisis to the next, as we do. That is really all I require. Yet it is a great deal.

Axé.

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