So by now my colleagues, my few remaining friends, even my longsuffering students are pretty sick of seeing me walk around with my shiny mylar-protected copy of The Poem of a Life tucked under my arm: "Yes, Mark / Professor Scroggins / Irritating Jerkwater, it looks really nice, and yes, you already showed me..."
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The weather apparently was mercifully dry thru the holiday weekend, so all the student watching the house had to worry about was reshelving the books in the right places and avoiding attacks from the neighbor's chihuahua. But this evening there've been torrential rains, & did I mention we have multiple roof leaks? One of them sprang in the den right over an enormous tottering stack of holiday catalogues that J has been saving over my objections (given my druthers, they'd go straight into recycling): oops, your catalogues got wet; my heart is broken.
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A cute & curious bit of academic erotica (?!) at University Diaries this morning. Uh, but I have a little problem conjoining "sex" & "Philip Roth" in the same sentence, my own dreams along those lines running in far less literary channels.
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Speaking of the genre of the big "E" –– It's already been established that I'm entirely out of the loop in contemporary Pound studies & Eliot criticism, but it's also embarassing the habit I've fallen into of buying CDs and then letting them gather dust for months before actually listening to them. Tonight I put on for the first time what I'd nominate as the sexiest album of the decade: Björk's Vespertine. (Did I mention that I have a major sick crush on the elfin Icelander (along with Mina Loy, Sarah Bernhardt, and all of the women in Gustav Klimt's paintings)?) Hoo boy! It's kind of like Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke, & Cassandra Wilson filtered through a Scandinavian dissonance machine: very, very cold, but very, very hot at the same time.
