Return of the school dreams
It’s that time of year again, and even we postacademics are dreaming about school. Dorothea’s account of her grad-school dream suggests that such dreams never quite go away. Sure enough, a couple of nights ago, my unconscious dredged up a vague but anxiety-ridden scene in which a nameless, faceless professor and I were looking at a student’s paper together. The professor, who was apparently supervising my grading, was saying in an indignant tone, "This is a terrible paper! I’d give it a D! What did you give it?" and I was trying desperately to think of a way to avoid telling her that I’d wimped out and given it a B-plus.
It’s ironic, because although I’m going to be doing a bit of instruction this year (mostly training students how to find what they’re looking for at the library), I’m definitely not going to be grading papers. Maybe this is my mind’s way of reassuring me: "See what you no longer have to deal with?"
In other news: The move is finally, finally done! All I have to do now is unpack. And unpack and unpack. And invest in a few new pieces of furniture to replace the ones I got rid of before I moved out here.
Oh, lord, I have grad student dreams every week. One recurring dream involves having to take a P.E. class at a local high school at the same time that I’m working on my dissertation, because it was discovered, in my dream, that I should not have graduated high school because I was short one P.E. credit.
Ode to Autumn II
Joseph Duemer teaches poetry, gets tired, ponders his academic image, and looks at the big picture. Amanda also has bad…
Is the smoke-smell situation any better? Did you demand that recleaning? I definitely sympathize; I’d be utterly miserable in a smoky apartment.
When I open the windows it smells fine in here; unfortunately, I’m still getting whiffs of smoke whenever I keep them shut for a while. I think it’s time to go talk to the landlords again.
Harrison, I take it you hated P.E. as much as I did?