D. insisted I turn off the computer, stow the books, momentarily look away
from the huge stack of essays I collected on Friday and get out of the
house. Walk around.
So we headed two blocks over to the 2004 Westcott Cultural Fair, a one-day brouha
with streetitude, activism, performance. Phenomenally hep. We could have
picked up enough "Bush Must Go" yard signs to winterize the apartment,
cover the windows, tile the floor, which is really on my mind b/c the outdoors
dipped to 41 F last night, and the indoors weren’t far from it. Scarf? And those
signs, they’re everywhere. Pleasant relief, So. Platte County (Mo.) with
its strict ban on eclecticism this is not.
But we didn’t collect any stuff in Westcott, as such. Instead, we each
gulped a cheeseburger (it really was gulpably drippy, greasewet). I’m back
home now: touching up my Fouctastic handout
(PDF) for tomorrow evening’s ten minutes on The Order of Things and,
too, flipping through the Nature section in Composition in Four Keys for
Wednesday, planning a drive to Kinkos and thinking about how I’m going to fit
ten hours of work into the six hours I have before bedtime.