first week

Last night we went to the house the sculpture teacher is house-sitting and he made a nice stew, though it was probably 1 am. We went there because he had to put the sheep back in their home so the coyotes wouldn't slaughter them all. But the dance teacher and I miscounted 1o over and over, so everyone had to go mucking about looking for the 11th sheep. There's somthing funny about counting sheep at night. In the end it turned out the 11th sheep was in the pen all along, but we hadn't seen it. I swear we both counted 3 times. Sheep have little brains. It's amazing how they really do have one hive mind, move in a herd. Pee when they're scared. Their tongues are soft.

Today I've been reading Brautigan and The Catcher in the Rye, again. The latter to remind myself where my students are, the former because I'm really into reading fiction that is whimsical/absurd but entirely without irony. It's such an earnest sort of fiction, but it isn't exactly realism. Maybe it's just that it's such a particular reality - that it gives off that "truth is stranger than fiction" vibe. At any rate, I'm finding the sincerity of both first person voices refreshing.

I love my students. I love the fervour with which they reference things like Rashomon and The House of Mirth and Pillow Talk and MacBeth, as if they were the first/only ones to discover these wonders. I love how much they love to write. I love how they feel they've found a place for themselves here. I love their red leggings. I love their phrases of the day (moist gazebo). I love how much they love making little in jokes out of things like the word "meat" or the names of characters in old westerns. I love how insightful they can get about global affairs. I love that they can spend ten minutes discussing the rape line in Harjo's "Horses," unfacilitated. I love that they love each other's writing, even if it's different from their own. I love how amazing their letter poems were. I love their monkey haiku.