Not All Who Wander Are Lost

Getting Better All The Time

Hmm. Does the dark collar call too much attention to my missing head?

Yes, folks, the rumor's true: in the last 48 a few development have brough a more general cheer. The solipsistic universe is on the upswing; the "interesting times" of the ancient chinese curse wanes. Even the loss of Plympton and Palmer in one day couldn't shake my mobility today. Life, in a nutshell:

Figuring it was better to be tired and working at it than bumming around the couch, snuck out to surprisingly isolated Mt. Holyoke College for a cheap Girlyman student-center crowd on a Thursday at a student-center concert last night. Left late and got lost on the way; stopped to ask directions at a 24/7 gas plaza that turned out to be less than two miles away from college, but they didn't know where it was.

Arrived finally at a dark and almost deserted campus; parked, found student center with about 60 women in it all staring at me. Forgot that Mt. H is a girl's college; I was literally the only male in the whole place. Man, talk about a clean men's room.

The show was awesome and not-so-badly attended given the scenario: Thursday evening, small college, nearing quarterfinals, girls at UMass events. Much of their single album and many covers, which you know I love: an old Jefferson Airplane tune, Paul Simon, Billy Bragg, a "Free Falling" singalong with mine the only basso, solo in the third row, comfortable in my age and sexuality.

Today even better. Darcie made bacon and eggs, potatoes and coffee, and Willow helped, and sent me on my way with smiles. Noodling and class prep all morning in the otherwise-silent library with but one substitute coworker and her two small and happy children and no one else, all librarians being on a retreat for the day. Darcie and Willow joined me at noon for a few hours of shared work in a light sprinkle of kids: no one goes to the library on Friday afternoon at a boarding school, not when there's on-campus games against rival Deerfield.

Taught comic books as medium this afternoon in Media Literacy class by passing out previously purchased comix and asking kids to read them and then define the medium, genre, and technology. Using American Splendor collection and Speigelman's Maus, discussed difference between graphic novel and comic book (serialization and hard/softcover, mostly) and major point of similarity (technique of cartoon-esque narrative graphics-with-text, text presented in same four modes of thought balloon, voice balloon, narrative box and sound effect).

Ginny at the house with tiny black kitten when I arrived; after an hour of watching the baby chase the cat stalking the dog, the four of us went out to Bella Notte, the probably-mafioso spot on the hill overlooking just about everything around here. The fried mozzerella was excellent as always, and the veal francese divine. Even polished off the side ziti -- the marinara sauce there just the sweetest, best tasting thing in just the right context. More expensive than we could afford, any of us, but worth it at twice the price for the cheerfulness factor alone. And it was so good to see Ginny, even if she had to rush off afterwards with the cat.

Now home, post-bath and baby-nursing, with babbling in the near distant dark, thinking, blogging, basking in even a small return to sanity. In the corners of the eyes and brain I'm hearing about more affection-starved, blocked-out dads, including some guys I know respect. Back hurts less in that funny way it has of feeling better after you didn't realize it was hurting at all.

Not bad at all, really.

[UPDATE 10:42 p.m. Brother-in-law, his long-time girlfriend, and their friend Rachel stopped by this evening for an hour or so. Josh and Clay are always wonderful company, and Rachel and I have that jovial same-spirit, deep-and-light thought, friends-instantly spark between us, but the baby really stole the show. Willow was amazing, bright and interesting and hilarious, just generally adorable: spinning around until she had to carefully lie down and flail, feeding me straight lines, crowing at the butt-half of the blocks that make animal noises when you put them against each other with the right picture showing. I love her so much. Heck, I'm practially happy. ]