All I remember of my dream last night is that I came back to Bemidji on Sunday and walked to my door, and there on my door's whiteboard, in his tell-tale handwriting, was the message "call Grubbs".
I have a sense of foreboding. But maybe it's just the weather. Perfect driving weather; grey and cloudy, not too bright for my sun-shunning eyes.
Froyd wants to have a new "Lost Generation", this time in Ireland. I'm all for it. I'd love to go to Ireland and write and get away from the US of A. But monetary issues strangle me at the moment. Perhaps once I'm graduated. Perhaps.
I'm more of a poet, anyway.
Time to get me packed up and head home. I'll blog from there in a bit. Lots of work to do this weekend. Adieu.
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