Strange Bedfellow, Strange

I've found my self snugglin' up to a lot of...er...people...er...lately.
.
.
.
In the form of books
& papers
& handouts
& submissions
.
.
.

The other night I fell asleep with Raymond Carver. He was telling me stories and the next thing I knew I was face down with a trail of drool connecting me to my pillow.

Usually it's handouts though...pedagogical nuggets of wisdom that may be seeping into my brain by osmosis. Teaching theories from two separate classes, even. Whew!

(There is a binder labeled "Composition Theory" always on the corner of my bed.)

I haven't been able to spend too much time (or practically any time) with my canon of favorites though, F. Scott...THIS MEANS YOU! But really, the idea of "reading for pleasure" doesn't seem to exist anymore for me.

(I know classmates who still find time though.)

This weekend there was a new addition to my...snugglin' circle. Twenty-eight new additions to be exact. I'm getting around...but one of the honors of being a first-year MFA student means I get to read for the (undergraduate) Margaret Harvin Wilson writing award.

(Practice for grading papers next year, I suppose. Another "thing" for the curriculum vitae.)

I wonder if my brain resembles this ever-present pile of papers I chose to surround myself with...like stacks and stacks of pages filled with XX years of words and thoughts.

Is that the visual we have of Derrida's idea that Writing came before Speech?

Think of the "writing" that occurs when you are burning a CD. Now think of your brain as the biggest CD you can ever imagine...always working, always being written upon.

See. Writing before Speech. I think I picked that up via osmosis, it sounds vaguely (very) familiar to a concept discussed in class and I slept with that handout too.

~~J