I am missing a day's worth of emails. I don't know what happened to them or where they went, but between 3pm yesterday to today, I did not receive any emails from anyone at the Bo', not even the digest entries. It's just gone. And now the emails are back, but no traces of the ones from yesterday. There's a small part of my heart, in between the busyness of the pumping and living, shedding silent tears for them.
Speaking of time warps, definitely stepped into one tonight, at a dimly lit German restaurant (which, interestingly enough, had the best pork marsala ever) with a few classmates and writer Geoffrey Wolff. There was that sense of awe that crept in again, as it often does at the Bo', the sense of "This is someone that knows his stuff, that has been teaching and writing for years, and I am eating with him." There was a little bit of that with Walty, but he's not that famous (so he knows Sharpton and Jabbar, but who knows him?). Then there was the PuMan, who was much more famous (and more generous with his stories about Welty and Updike), but only to people that read contemporary fiction (or folks who happened to know recent Pulitzer winners). Then there was Wolff, comparatively similar fame to PuMan, but has a brother named Tobias. That's pretty awesome. I want to be ripped off by a production company filming a movie based on my brother's book. I would not mind being so successful that in making my brother's film, they steal some materials from my own book, no, I'd be kind of proud. Yet there I was, eating my kraut and spatzle, soaking it all in.
In the midst of the soaking, a different hunger awakened, not one of intellectual curiosity but an urgent, physical hunger. I ate the salad, the roll, the marsala, the noodles, the kraut, then another roll, then the chocolate covered strawberries (though not the random watermelon garnish), and still my stomach is begging me, prostrate before me, fists pounding, demanding more food. Can someone please cook me more pork?
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