We've been charged with taking some photos of our classrooms this summer - not easy, when they are relatively (energy-conservingly) dark. These are St John's Santa Fe rooms, where I'm teaching for the Bread Loaf School of English (two afternoons a week) - I've been teaching BL on and off since 1990, which makes me very long in the tooth indeed - I think all of my students would have been born by then, but I'm not sure. Here are fourteen English teachers discussing "Burnt Norton" (and "Tradition and the Individual Talent") today - it was "poetry and impersonality," and BN was precariously sandwiched between Shelley's "Mont Blanc" and Simon Armitage's poem about the Columbine shooting. It's actually great fun (I don't normally ever get to teach "British Poetry" as a category) - real time out.
And actually, I'm taking time out from writing about The Finch Tragedy. It got worse. There was one brave finchlet left in the nest this morning, tended by about 14 adults. And then ... I was just starting class ... text from Alice, back in Eldorado ... another red racer ... you know the rest.
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