The melancholy task of returning books and otherwise presiding over the dissolution of Bookery II is underway. Today I snagged a Frank O'Hara recording and a couple of of Philip K. Dick novels on their way back to the publisher; I'll scavenge as much as I can afford over the next couple weeks. In the meantime, ironically, business is way up for the time of year. Maybe it's just people taking advantage of the 15% off sale (going up to 25% next month), maybe they're here to mourn. It feels like Ithaca is losing one of its anchors; if it's true what the bumper sticker says ("Ithaca: Ten Square Miles Surrounded by Reality") then reality just took a big bite out of it.
Fighting a cold, not up to much besides planning my Intro to Drama class now that we're completely caught up with Lost. Reading the Orestia and really feeling those Aristotlean dramatic virtues in it of pity and terror. Trying to decide if I teach the whole thing or if we should just stick to the Agamemnon.
All the poetry journals are gone already. It's a terrible pity.
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