Garden · Postwar

Morning

Thea comes to me this morning full of demands and schemes, all that funk and lethargy finally behind her. We need to rethink the chapter on postmodern politics. Have I read Haraway on situated knowledge yet? Why won't her Macintosh boot from the external hard drive? Do these shorts show too much derriére, and do I really care?

I think it means something, this sudden abundance of energy. I think it means she's beginning to accommodate herself, to accept her place in the sun. Waking up Californian — sooner or later it happens to all of us.

She sits on my deck wearing some of Alastair's old shades, reading last week's Chronicle and doing a sort of play-by-play. I've never met anyone for whom academic culture seemed so much like professional wrestling.

My day starts well when she comes.