backdate 7/23 8:49pm
Just got back from the first meeting of the minds. That’s what it is, really. A bunch of PhDs sitting around talking about Baktin this and Foucault that. And I’ve been getting into it—a little. I walked back from campus alone, stopped off to see the Rodin sculptures (apparently there are a lot of them around here) then strolled along a long stretch of palm trees. And all the while I thought ‘I could do this; I could live here and teach English and read Baktin and Foucault; I could be a scholar for ever and have students worship me and focus more on reading critical theory than fiction. I mean, I don’t need to dedicate my life to writing fiction when I could be deconstructing it. There’s plenty of fiction out there that needs to be taken apart. Besides, if I did nothing but write stories I’d only be contributing to the mass of works out there that may not even be read by scholars.’
And then I thought: ‘I really like Sesame Street. I wonder what Ernie is doing right now. When is his bedtime? And how old is he, anyway? I mean, he and Burt live together, right? And I’ve never seen them with older folks, like parents or anything. So they have to be at least eighteen. But wait: they both seem to be balding, so maybe they’re in their thirties. Or older. But if they’re that old why are they living together? Are they gay? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Puppets should be allowed to be gay. There should be more gay puppets. I wonder if there’s a kids show with gay puppets. I mean gay puppets who are out.’
And so it went. Stinky, slimy feet, a hot brain and miles of senseless drivel. I could do this. I could be an idiot.