An unsuccessful series of gestures

An elegant and graceful nighttime has ensued. All winds have passed to other realms, leaving a softened and cooled landscape. Stars are brighter against a deep black sky and even the city lights don’t completely drown them out.

There’s a persistent hum that signals down-time, bed-time and quiet-time. The hum is always there, more or less, but when things quiet, the hum can be heard and it’s a known presence. It makes me sleepy, though I need little help with that tonight. It draws my focus away from any one thing and allows me to slow down long enough to doze off, roaring into a kind of dreamy sleepfulness that only ends when I am elbowed by a 6 year-old who wants more attention.

The day itself was a kind of sunset painting. It’s beautiful, but it’s ending too soon and I know there’s more to do. I’ve got books to teach and I’ve got students who aren’t taking it seriously enough. They read Gatsby, but they’re lost amid the words, as I suppose I was at that age, forgetting about the beauty in Fitzgerald’s descriptions. No one sets an emotional scene like F. Scott Fitzgerald. No one. But awakening that in a 16 year-old mind is rather a task and I fear that nothing really focuses it like….well, maturity.

In other words–maybe a dozen years from now, one of those kids will leaf through Gatsby again and say, “man….I’ve never read anything so beautiful.” Well, actually–yeah you have. But, it was a long time ago and I tried to get you to….ah, never mind. You’re right. It’s a great book. Give it a go.

Posted in Family, Work/writing life