This Morning

Up this morning, before six.  A bowl of cereal while water boils, listening to Vince Dynamic’s new EP.  Then, a cup of red tea outside while my dogs, three pitbull terriers, terrorize a small ground squirrel hidden in a woodpile.  It stays put and eventually they give up the siege, falling back on a chaotic triune wresting match, disturbing the throw rugs of leaves dotting the back lawn.  Tea finished, the dogs settle down and I climb aboard my bike to ride to school, gloved and hatted and jacketed against the damp cool morning.  My breath as I pedal looks like a strange reverse exhaust from the bike.

Later, I drink coffee, thick, and hot and hot, at the local coffee house.  Feeling returns to my fingers.  I read Gass essays, his acrobatic sentences limber my mind; the coffee chases my thoughts, forcing them to run.  Yesterday’s puzzling over Marcel returns, and I work at distinguishing being from having, wondering if I can manage to get my students to see the relationship between Plotinus’ introspective understanding of embodiment and Marcel’s phenomenology of having a body.  (Is Plotinus a metaphysician or a metapsychologist–and what is either of those?)

Still later, at the department office, friends and I gather, joking about using Gmail to set up emails to be delivered after you are dead.  (Yes, they have Moses and the prophets, but what if someone sent them email from beyond the grave?  G-mail, indeed.)  Someone brings in an ancient nutcraker and matching pick–the pick to save the meat of pecans from the still co-dependent embrace of their opened shells.  (There’s been a bag of pecans on the office counter, mostly unmolested, for weeks.)  I haven’t seen a nutcraker like that since I was a boy.

One of my friends and I go out and smoke.  We talk about King James’ “Counterblaste to Tobacco”.  He tells me of missiles over Israel.  Time to go to work.

5 responses

  1. Overly saddled and lost in the too-bright convention center: someone’s nightmare of an airport or a mall. At the far end of the skybridge, the Norse Starbucks’ siren smiles serenely. I go to her (click, click, click), heap my seven bags and coat on a bench, fish for my purse, “Short americano, please.” Free WiFi (praise God) and this– Such simple, gentle gift.

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