Finals Week
started with my first one this afternoon. Major English Poets. Annabel told us she thought the final would be fun to write. It was. I did Donne dates, played Spenser short answers, and fell in love with brilliance again in the 3rd satire. Toyed with translations a bit but think Chaucer'll be alright. Remembered random Middle English but mucked up Mars' Temple. Still shining in the afterglow, the aura of one down three to go. Past days built to three hours and afterwards it's an ice-cream Sunday Sundae, penis game in the dining hall, all out English nerd battle of the allusions relief. Beat Ivan in the second, we tied in the third, and I lost The Game. (Say grace period.) After studying for a semester, finals are almost a joy.
Reading week is joy. Not only does the name promise it (perhaps falsly) to be a week devoted to my favorite thing, but without classes so much happens. Paul Muldooon came Monday! He refused to stay behind the lectern but wandered through the front row floor we sat on. Explanations sometimes interupted own poems to define strange phrases like "acting the lid." "He's so weird," Zoe said gesturing to him holding the door for every single person on the way out. Wes Davis came. Muldoon drove through up from Princeton in sleet and snow to read in our living room. I still have bruises. Slipped going to dinner. Legs sprawled out foal-like in different directions. From the sidewalk I introduced myself, "Clumsy." The accent asked if I was ok all through his shepherd's pie. We took an Irish poet to an Irish pub. A little awkward but Anna Liffey's food was decent and I found the bathroom though they tried to disguise it with some gaelic. Spent three hours getting accustomed to his conversation which drifted off mid thought, floated awkwardly (or pleasantly depending on your opinion) in the air and returned if were patient. Talked about teenage beginnings. Talked about how hard to be a writer whatever age. He brought in Macneice and I brought "Snow. The room is suddenly rich and the great bay window is spawning..." Shining dinner.
The end of reading week means no more readings, dinners with poets, Clinton advisor talks on Sudan, or Theatre. Seema and I went to the Yale Rep to see Lady of the Camillas. Amazing. Perfect for people obsessed with people, plays, politics. Afterwards, I couldn't get my breath back. I eeped. There's something that just happens between 8 and 11. Want to run away, watch plays forever? And never become a cccrritic! (capital insult) or say the name of that play about the Scottish prince. But the end of reading week means back to the world even epic theater can't prepare us for. Four finals, one down. Three, infinite tea and records to go.
Reading week is joy. Not only does the name promise it (perhaps falsly) to be a week devoted to my favorite thing, but without classes so much happens. Paul Muldooon came Monday! He refused to stay behind the lectern but wandered through the front row floor we sat on. Explanations sometimes interupted own poems to define strange phrases like "acting the lid." "He's so weird," Zoe said gesturing to him holding the door for every single person on the way out. Wes Davis came. Muldoon drove through up from Princeton in sleet and snow to read in our living room. I still have bruises. Slipped going to dinner. Legs sprawled out foal-like in different directions. From the sidewalk I introduced myself, "Clumsy." The accent asked if I was ok all through his shepherd's pie. We took an Irish poet to an Irish pub. A little awkward but Anna Liffey's food was decent and I found the bathroom though they tried to disguise it with some gaelic. Spent three hours getting accustomed to his conversation which drifted off mid thought, floated awkwardly (or pleasantly depending on your opinion) in the air and returned if were patient. Talked about teenage beginnings. Talked about how hard to be a writer whatever age. He brought in Macneice and I brought "Snow. The room is suddenly rich and the great bay window is spawning..." Shining dinner.
The end of reading week means no more readings, dinners with poets, Clinton advisor talks on Sudan, or Theatre. Seema and I went to the Yale Rep to see Lady of the Camillas. Amazing. Perfect for people obsessed with people, plays, politics. Afterwards, I couldn't get my breath back. I eeped. There's something that just happens between 8 and 11. Want to run away, watch plays forever? And never become a cccrritic! (capital insult) or say the name of that play about the Scottish prince. But the end of reading week means back to the world even epic theater can't prepare us for. Four finals, one down. Three, infinite tea and records to go.
