- deciphering 8 poems ("Velocity and throat verisimilitude." -- Lyn Hejinian's My Life)
- reading 12 works of nonfiction/fiction prose ("A short, dry laugh, a rabbity laugh." -- Roberto Bolano's Savage Detectives)
- reading 3 essays of criticism, some understandable, some cryptic ("There, the long hypotactic sentences yield to a flurry of short ones, increasing the occasions for full end stops with those paratactic declaratives, which are reinforced, never subdivided, by the lineation.")
- listening to numerous lectures by brilliant instructors ("Memory corrupts the thing remembered") and the clever comments of my cohort, mine rarely among them (fuh fuh fuh and ha ha ha)
- writing responses to 5 students' work ("What does the narrator want the reader to discover about this girl/her mother/the family/the era?")
- scribbling awkward poetry in a frenzied state of inspiration while crossing the Golden Gate Bridge ("your steely expanse stretched in perpetuity")
- writing a critical essay in response to a chosen poem ("If My Life is to be Hejinian's Manifesto, she is declaring that memory, and its linguistic representation, isn't linear or complete.")
- turning in 14 pages of nonfiction, to be critiqued Tuesday ("How does one account for the blur of decades, the ineptitude of memories cut like still shots from scrapbooks?")
- studying MLA guidelines ("Most research assignments ask you to form a thesis"), a glossary of narrative terms ("Denouement: The 'wrap-up' phase at the end of a narrative") and poetic terms I'd never heard of (metonymy, synecdoche, anapestic).
Today it's back to the books.