My Last Blog

Yesterday, out of the blue I woke up sick. So if my last blog sounds weary and tired, it's because I am. And though my body hurts, and my brain is taking a vacation; though the warmth of the summer sun calls to me, I am still going to miss Dr. Sexson and his wisdom. No other teacher speaks so comfortably about life as a dream, about dreams as reality, about our future and past both burning in the present. No other teacher would question reality like Dr. Sexson because teachers are not supposed to do that. And I imagine few and far between are the English teachers who are literary sleuths like our teacher. Sometimes I feel that I will never be able to decipher a text, or make the kind of connections between works that my fellow students do. Sometimes I feel like Maggie does--frustrated and left out. But at other times, while reading one book or another, a smile will slowly spread my lips. An allusion to another work! At times like these I feel so smart, and I always think of how proud Mr. Sexson would be of me. So you see, he has infected me. The curse of never being able to read the same way, or the same old books, is upon me. Two semesters of Sexsonism has changed me.

I think my favorite moment of the class was being told the story by Dr. Sexson of the old woman on the plane. If anyone else had told the story, it would not have been the same. In his voice was the magic of the encounter, the magic in a story. His story wonderfully illustrated the fiction of everyday life. I will never be able to stop myself, everytime I board a plane, from thinking of his story. Will I see that old lady with the numbers on her wrist?