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jere7myDue to a blessed event in the Classics department ("blessed event" being code for "sudden new baby, ack!"), K. is teaching the classes of one of her colleagues this week. The new father woke me up with a phone call this morning, to breathlessly explain what his students were supposed to do, and as he babbled (with fairly impressive coherence, I though) I scribbled notes for K. on a sequence of postage-stamp sized Post-Its. K. handled his seminar tonight very well, despite being thrust into an unfamiliar situation; she teaches his Latin class tomorrow morning. This is probably a good thing, since it will impress the people who will be writing her recommendations, but it meant I was all alone for most of the evening, alas.
...which wasn't toobad, since I now have a copy of The System of the World, the last volume of Neal Stephenson's Baroque Cycle. (It turns out the college bookstore has a better SF section than I'd thought, though learning this required me to admit that I'd missed the big obvious signage.) It is massive and golden and shiny, and it makes my wrist tired when I read it, and it reminded me that I hadn't updated my book journal since I finished The Confusion in May.
There's a reason infrequent updating is a bad idea: there is a hole...in my mind. I cannot for the life of me remember what I read in between Dreadnought! (finished June 30th) and Perfect Circle (begun en route to Pinewoods). I spent an unadmittably long time staring at my bookshelves, since whatever it was has to be there, but to no avail. It is driving me just a bit crazy.
And now I've started thinking about it again.
Curses.
How can I go back to writing porn now?
...which wasn't toobad, since I now have a copy of The System of the World, the last volume of Neal Stephenson's Baroque Cycle. (It turns out the college bookstore has a better SF section than I'd thought, though learning this required me to admit that I'd missed the big obvious signage.) It is massive and golden and shiny, and it makes my wrist tired when I read it, and it reminded me that I hadn't updated my book journal since I finished The Confusion in May.
There's a reason infrequent updating is a bad idea: there is a hole...in my mind. I cannot for the life of me remember what I read in between Dreadnought! (finished June 30th) and Perfect Circle (begun en route to Pinewoods). I spent an unadmittably long time staring at my bookshelves, since whatever it was has to be there, but to no avail. It is driving me just a bit crazy.
And now I've started thinking about it again.
Curses.
How can I go back to writing porn now?
