Today was all school school school, and afterwards I went out to a very nice dinner with former students. This morning I raced to get dressed so I could walk to my office. I'm like this kid who can't wait to scamper through the streets. It was overcast and not warm or cool, an oddly temperatureless atmosphere, but the mugginess was such that you'd feel clammy and sweaty no matter what you wore. When I got to campus a guy in a lime green safety vest was mowing the lawn, and there was that intoxicating suburban grassy scent, which like the scent of freshly cut wood makes my father loom large in my consciousness. All that I'm doing here is punctuated and framed by my reading of Norman Cohn's The Pursuit of the Millennium: Revolutionary Millenarians and Mystical Anarchists of the Middle Ages, which Meredith Quartermain suggested after she read the buddhist. And it's the perfect book for me right now, the waves and waves of charismatic prophets. This book is proving to me beyond a doubt that my suspicious that human rationality is a total myth have been correct all along. I'm very interested in charismatic poets as well as religious figures. My studies of cults have revamped my understanding of poetry communities. Since I started with grass, I went to Google images and typed in "green." I chose the frogs because they seem so adoring of one another. Two beings on a leaf—is that enough to constitute a community? My father is the only person I've ever heard call French people "frogs."