Preacher, teacher: anything you have in mind

A long and rather meandering day. Cold, cold morning. An early trip to the gym, followed by an hour of French ("Un jus de fruit est quelque chose a` boire" - great, huh?). The teary-eyed ending of At Swim, Two Boys. And then, in the park later, over coffee, Bryan explains to me my "aura": "You give off this child-like vibe. It's the way you kind of look up at the sky for no reason, or you tilt your chair, or look like you're lost in a daydream or something." I'm surprised at his impression, but he doesn't stop there. "And I bet there's a certain kind of guy you attract. Maybe they're older, but they're drawn to that part of you. They want to take care of you." He's mischievous in his appraisal, but not necessarily incorrect. Still, I'm embarrassed. And resistant. How could my writing possibly come off as child-like? "It's not your writing they're attracted to. How many of them even read it?" He smiles, secure and satisfied. And I? I am, apparently, transparent.

But not always. In my box at school, I find my teaching evaluations - all of them excellent. And one in which a student has written: "Greg's teaching style has developed significantly over the semester. His unique way of approaching the texts was, to me at first, a bit irreverent, but I've found that over the course of the semester, it helped me see the texts in a new way. The class really helped deepen my understanding & appreciation for Shakespeare. Thanks." I can't determine who wrote it, though I know for certain who did not. "Irreverent" is a strange choice of word - and not one that I'd ever use to describe my handling of texts, least of all Shakespeare. A blindspot in my teaching style or an indication of the multiple ways a behavior or persona can be received?

And now it's evening. Stephen's time. My newly rearranged bedroom. And a kitchen overwhelmed by the trash of a spring cleaning. At night, I've been dreaming of abandoned animals, of gardens, of my classmates huddled and speaking in Eastern tongues. I've seen crosses stretching tall like streetlights in the darkness. And at 6:30 each morning I wake with a start, sometimes to the sound of thunder. In the cold, and with my cat Azazel huddled close to me for warmth, it's hard to believe it's May.