Saturday, October 25, 2008
The space-heater in my bedroom must not be situated within three feet of anything, particularly, anything inflammable. Upon survey of my room, one discerns first the futon mattress on the floor. Next one may note the disassembled, wooden futon frame stacked to one side below the windows looking out onto nothing but the ivy that covers the side of the house. To the right, behind the space heater, stands a near-ceiling-high wooden bookshelf, containing at least two hundred books. On the floor, to one side, binders, documents, and more books (mostly dictionaries and writing supplements) rest neatly, if undecorously. On the mattress are piled six stacks of books and notebooks relating to my graduate classes and the section of beginning Latin I teach. If I shift heavily in sleep, these will bury me. If the space heater sets them alight, they will bury me in flames.
I spent the day reading about medieval archaeology and prosopography. At midday I broke off on a walk to the student recreation center, to read the first act of Kleist's Penthesileia on a recumbent bike, and then to swim about twenty laps. All this conducted in blissful solitude.
I do not like anyone.
Labels: archaeology, bedroom, books, bookshelf, flames, futon, Heinrich von Kleist, ivy, Latin, Penthesileia, prosopography, recumbent bike, sleep, solitude, space heater, student recreation, swimming
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 5:22 PM]