It's the beginning of the semester again, the time of the year when I feel most like Sisyphus at the bottom of the hill. Oh, crap, I'm thinking. There's that rock again.
I love teaching. I love English. I love what I do. As I told my freshmen students on Wednesday morning, words are my business, and I love the whole business of words. It's just this first week, standing on the threshhold of the semester, when I'm thinking, good crap, don't these little fuckers know Chaucer yet? I mean, I've been teaching freshman comp, what, fifteen *years* now? Surely they know how to write by NOW?
Or, you know, Dickens. Must I explain Dickens AGAIN? Or World Lit II. Monkey. Reading Monkey. Surely you little trolls get the whole business about Buddha and all-suffering-arises-from-desire so stop with the fucking desiring already by NOW?
If you don't, hell, go find some of my old students. Ask them. I'm going for coffee.
Rock? What rock?