Everybody's had to fight to be free

Holy crap, everything turned busy. The Whiting trip was frenzied, as was the lead-up to it. And now, getting back, trying to find a rhythm again -- my stupid Jazzy chair breaks down. Fitfully at first the power would die, then yesterday it gave up the ghost entirely. Poor Jonette was saddled with lugging me about, still Jazzy-fied, from office to classroom. Today I went in in my push chair, which was a bit challenging, navigating teaching while immobile. Luckily, I'm in one of the computer classrooms so I could monitor them from my desk. I'm able to spy on them, which they are not crazy about, but there is great pleasure in locking a student from Facebook, from use of the computer. Attention = grabbed. I cackle while they alternate between grumbling and laughing at me. Which essentially describes my entire pedagogy.

Today the very sweet repair girl dropped in to look at my chair, rapidly confirming what I'd expected: one of the battery terminals was damaged. By who? Airport workers, shoving the batteries around as they disassemble the chair for flight. It seems inevitable that some minor damage is done: an armrest bent, a latch broke. Once AirCanada lost my chair. Lost it. As in misplaced it. As in we just had it but can't remember where we left it. That was interesting.

So she replaced the post and I'm going again. Which is good, as the next few days ramp up again: tomorrow morning Chad and Greg are interviewing me for a tv show the university does. Which makes me laugh, the thought of it. They've been peppering me with test queries: "One of your poems seems kind of sad. Is that true?" I'm planning on drunken belligerence. Then teaching. Then a few of us are doing a benefit reading to benefit the local soup kitchen. Please, do drop by.

Then, then, then. It's Eliot and Stephanie flying in for the weekend, which will be great.

Debauchery. Etc.