Afternoon is fading in Maringouin and I did not get to Rising Tide, which must have been an adrenalin filled event since Hurricane Irene made landfall as a Category One storm in North Carolina this morning. I have written Eric Cantor:
Bayou Maringouin, LA. Today marks the sixth anniversary of the arrival of the Hurricane Katrina evacuees we were destined to host here and at points north and west over the next few months. Evacuees and refugees from Hurricane Rita would arrive a few weeks later. In honor of all those who suffered, and especially of those who died or suffered permanent losses as a result of these storms, I request that you do everything in your power to provide immediate and long term relief for all victims of Hurricane Irene, without a requirement to “pay it back” in the form of other budget cuts. Yours very truly.
Filed under Hurricanes, News
This song is for that Spanish Professor and Clarissa. It is truly American, and it explains a great deal.
I hope, but cannot promise, to be at Rising Tide today. This year August 29 falls again on a Monday, as it did in 2005. Classes had just started and things were hectic, and we were keeping our back eye on the storm. Saturday morning things seemed cosy and bright, and I was not thinking about it at all when the phone rang from New Orleans, can we come up? Everyone was packing all Saturday and securing houses, and we were shopping for supplies.
Sunday people drove up and in some cases through in slow contraflow, with the sky darkening, and we went to one of the afternoon dances. Monday we felt the outer bands and tried to aim Google Earth at New Orleans streets. By night it appeared not to have been so bad.
Tuesday I went in to work, where we soon heard that the levees were breaking. I did not get to New Orleans until Thanksgiving and when I got there, it looked — no, was worse than San Salvador. I had the foolish idea of going to Managua at Christmas and it was as New Orleans is now: settled into disaster. Later that winter, moving toward spring, I started this post-Apocalyptic weblog.
“Police issued arrest warrants for the two for their roles in a bar fight Aug. 19 at Shady’s bar. BRPD contacted LSU Coach Les Miles and the players’ attorney, Nathan Fisher, to request the players turn themselves in, which they did at 10:15 a.m. at the East Baton Rouge Parish Prison.”
Various people were quoted talking about how traumatic it was for the football players, who apparently kicked someone in the face and sent four to the hospital in this bar fight, to be “accused.”
I’ve missed studio time and workout time and I am going to miss two interesting extracurricular events, all because I am flashing back too much to be a reliable driver. The content of these flashbacks appears to suggest that if I could be forgiven for having done the PhD, then the pain of having a professor job, namely a job caring for the fractious and the weak, might end.
I have talked about this before and I know it is irrational. But I want to be forgiven for having done the PhD so that I can actually graduate. (At one point I had actually graduated but it turned out to have been a crime or sin.)
How was your summer? I asked the students. Depressing, said one. Why? Because I live in a small town. Boring, said the next. Why? Because I live in a small town. Why do you not like that? The self-loathing and the domestic violence all pitch and heave together, ze said, and it is worse when it is hot.
De la musique, pour le weekend. Either I will go to Rising Tide, or to something even more audacious.
Experiments this week prove once again that the Mediterraneans are right: you should eat dinner for lunch and hardly eat dinner. This is the plan that gives you the most energy throughout the day and also makes the day the longest and the least stressful.
I wish it were more feasible to do this in the United States. Please note also that lunch is not just what you eat but a real pause. Even the English language phrase “a quick bite” makes me nauseous.
I am so depressed already and it is only the end of the first week. Real teaching hasn’t started yet, even. It is the basic language classes that do it. I barely began to recover from these over the summer and it is all starting again. I the angel of death appeared I would say take me, I leave no one, I have seen everything, I have nothing to live for, my pain is too great to bear. I do not feel I should post about it but I have to say something. Mon Dieu, qu’est-ce que je souffre.
Why is it that I was lectured so severely throughout graduate school about how I would not “get” to do this when I became a professor and that if I did do it, I would not advance professionally — and that then, when I became a professor, I was lectured so severely about how people who do not like best to teach “the first course in their field” — which has to be whatever the institution considers the first course and considers that the field is — are “not serious” (“lack of seriousness” being the most capital sin)?
I can hear all these voices now and I wish I were underground or in another country far away. The classes themselves are painful enough — ask any instructor. But the problem are these flashbacks, and the pain of them, and how I fear that pain.
This film is in fashion in the blog world, so I will post the beginning of it. Consider the role of the narrator.