November 17, 2004

Long time

I have been grading hundreds of often incomprehensible essays, the philosophic flight occassionally appearing unexpectedly from the unending pile of reflections on how great the school festival was. One student, in his meditations on the time-tested adage "time is money," successfully refuted our capitalist leanings by asserting that "time is not money, for money comes and goes, but time is." I was proud of this kid, Ishikawa, the shyest boy in all of my classes. Other than that, I have no other startling revelations from the pile of essays that lay generously graded on my desk. I must go to Kyoto this weekend, and I am going to try and do some studying as well. Furthermore, I will contemplate the best way to titilate the reader's mind. Maybe if I stand outside in the cold for long enough I'll come across a vision or a miracle. Floating away to sleep here, I realize that I haven't remembered to write to many people in this world that I must write to. Maybe everyone should stop this second and partake in such an endeavor. It would make for a world that is a little less uncommunicative. After all, I am now a teacher of communication, maybe I should be communicating something in the process. That's it. Apologies for this paltry excuse of an entry. Who am I apologizing to other than myself? I know you reader are silently confused as to what I am apologizing for, what I am talking about. So, more whistling in the dark...Good night, Wakayama...


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