Sometimes, there really just isn’t anybody to call.
Only life to live.
Most of my consciousness is directed toward my friend, a teacher, a guide who never led me wrong. Feeling grateful, mostly, for her life and all the gifts she gave, is giving, will continue to give.
Weird synchronies. Today was the last lecture in a course I interpreted this semester on American Romanticism. (Oh, are they talking about me?) Earlier this semester I got excited by Walt Whitman. I don’t think I ever read Leaves of Grass. Now it’s Moby Dick. I did try to read it, once. On my own – not for a class. I don’t remember anything that I read because it was assigned. (Careful, tangent alert!)
The teacher emphasized the relationship between Ahab and Starbuck – a lot of action happened between “The Quarterdeck” and “Symphony,” and there’s two key chapters in between: “The Musket” and “Cabin.” Then we got to “The Chase.” There’s also an intense analysis of Ishmael, the trope of embodiment, and the author’s philosophy. (Today the Occupy Wall Street movement is unleashing a wave of protest intended to ignite the 99%. I only know one person in the 1% who likes me. I might have met some others but they didn’t like me too much.)
Mei Mei wants attention too.