Wonder and Amazement

and many prostrations of thanks to y'all who've held good thoughts for me in the last year. Between your good wishes and my insane plan, it's all worked out. McFarland Press is This Close to offering Co-Editor and I a contract for the Murdoch anthology!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Like, Editor Cat says that he'll be in touch next week about details &c., and so there we go. It's almost embarrassing. With this news, I have officially completed the making possible of my whole list of projects and the reason for my bailing out of that smoking plane known as my former job. Blessings on all of you, again, as well, an many-fold in return. Sometime in the next year or so, you will have the opportunity to read Iris Murdoch's Scenes: An Anthology of Moral Imaginations. (And a little book called A Poetics of Being Two, you know, because thanks to you and me, I have two books in the hopper just now.)

Now, on to a dumbassed teaching moment. We're reading DeLillo's "Videotape" in class, sort as an introductory study about fiction. One of my students suggests that the narrator is the serial killer. This is not computing for me because I'm all focused on how the story comments on the itch to see the bad thing happen inculcated in us by the news media's way of playing on our voyeurism. So, like an ass, I say I just don't see it. Because, I just don't see it. Which so totally does not mean that it's not there. Then, I'm driving home (which takes a hour plus), and my Brain says, "Excuse me, dolt, it's a totally reasonable reading of the story, here's all the evidence for it, yes the possible meanings of the story change, and you need to back on Wed. to apologize this is kid and do another lesson on that story and how meanings and ideas change depending on, well, everything." Mercy. I hate when I do that. Not because I have to apologize, but because I sometimes fail to be, well, open enough. What I should have done was say, "I've not thought of this. Show me why you did." Geeeeez.

A funny story about my neighbors who used to "own" Jack. One, at the bonfire they informed us that they now call him Traitor Jack because he chose to live with us. OK, look, you people were neglectful enough of a dog that sleeps by the front door ALL DAY waiting for Fleur to come home, he is that loving and loyal, that he moved out of your lives and into ours -- and you have the narcissistic audacity to call him a traitor? More like political refugee from a cruel and unpredictable dictatorship, I say. Now, I told you that story in order to tell you this story. --- Yesterday, I am told, Jack was up by the road and sort of close to their house. They called him over, all friendly and hi and nice to see you. He looked at them for a second, ears perked....

and BOLTED back to our house.

That's about all that needs saying anymore, ever, about that. Personally, I revel in calling him Traitor Jack.