I've no idea what I'm doing here typing. I'm beat (like a piece of meat) and what needs to be happening is me in my bed with my book. But combine all my tiredness with a 50th wind and a whole shock of hyper from a class gone right (for once, dear god, for once it went just right and great) and where's my train of thought?

Damn. Frances says all the things I want to say and she says 'em good.

So, why, you ask, did class go so well? Well, my little darlings, let me tell you. I wasn't worried about it. I didn't even prepare. For a 3 hour class, I prepared naught. It helps that there are only 7 people in this class, all women, all of whom I feel like I can just talk with. So we talked about poetry. And remember? I LOVE to talk about poetry. Smashing, good times. And the woman who doesn't understand the difference between poetry and poems and who couldn't pick out a metaphor to save her life? Damned if she doesn't get poetry quick as lightning. You read something out loud to her and she gets it. Amazing. She gets it with her whole person, she savors the words and can't get her ideas out fast enough, and it's just a beautiful thing. I love that class, really I do. I didn't think I would--or that I wouldn't love them the way that I do. But they are so unconcerned with the crap the kids in my big university class concern themselves with--they listen to Daisy Zamora read her revolutionary Nicaraguan poems and they are nearly in tears. Which is just about where they should be--not sitting there filing their nails and looking cute, but letting their whole bodies feel the poems.

They still call me Miss Molu though. Nothing I can do to change this fact. Even though 5 of the 7 are old enough to be my momma, if not my grandmomma.

That's all. I was going to write about the young buck on the social committee and how I can't stand boys (or girls) who think that just cause they's cute you want them to flirt with you. Can't stand that. But I'll save that story for another day.