We had another nice day chatting today. Jim, Loren, and I met up in Itaehwon to enjoy some Indian food. Today our discussion ranged on the various writing workshops we had been a part of; the responses we had received during readings and one-on-one's with established writers; and the issue of grading in a creative writing course.
"How do you grade?" I asked Loren.
"I don't know," he said. "I was asking some of the graduate students about this," he said. "One of them told me that an A- is not good. I asked her about a B or a C, and she said, 'A B is not good. And a C is like, 'you shouldn't be in graduate school - get out!' "
I mentioned how I questioned a high grade I had gotten from Steven Taylor at one time, and how he resolved the issue by giving me a B- from then on out - only to give me an A in the long run.
"Yes," Jim smiled.
"Good," Loren agreed.
I am not sure if creative writing can be graded. I think it defeats the purpose of writing. If they show up and do the work, that is all that is necessary. Maybe. I don't really know. It was good to chat about it though. I feel very lucky to have both Jim and Loren around me.
It was also good to watch SY shower her love on Jim. Today she remarked that she could tell if he was going to have a good or bad day, based on the sound of his bowel movements.
"If it's just a couple farts and then little drops, I think, 'Oh, he is not going to have a good day.' Then I know I have to take care of him."
She says this as she patted his stomach. I managed to laugh uproariously and take a picture simultaneously.
"Does that make it into the blog?" Loren asked.
Well, I guess so. And to add to today's blogging experience, I will continue my one hour required writing project. I'm curious to see what will happen.
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Max wasn't fond of wizardry. Although he had practiced the black arts on a few occasions, he had yet to really apply himself to his studies. His parents had harped on him the importance of being able to learn an incantation or making the miserable unhappy with a simple 7-day curse, but he spent most of his time hunting for bull frogs instead.
It brought him great joy to fill the empty pickle jars from the pantry, and pour them out onto Gene Wilson's slide to see them slip and stick to the cold metal.
"Slip," he said to them. "Slide."
Gene Wilson, 4 years his younger, enjoyed these displays of zoology, and would often watch Max from his bedroom window. He dreamed of going down to join him in the festivities, but he had been restricted to bed rest for the past year - due to a heavy concussion he had received during a hunting accident.
"Hand me the gun," his father had said.
"Which one?" Gene asked.
No sooner had Gene answered the question, when an unhappy bison, sensing his impending doom, charged full force into his chest. Gene was knocked unconscious, and awoke in a hospital bed in Zurich, where he was informed that a year's bed rest would help him remember who he was, as he couldn't remember which gun he had in his hand (a Winchester shotgun), or exactly who he was (Gene Wilson).
His mother bathed him daily. This was what she had done, when he was 12 the year before, and sensing that old customs in the Wilson household may bring about a change in his condition - she continued to offer these soothing moments.
"Do you remember today?" she asked.
"No," Gene said. "I don't."
Max who had no knowledge of Gene, other than the playground set in his backyard, often wondered why such a thing existed without any child to make it complete. He would wonder about this soon after the bullfrogs had made their way under the slide and back toward the brush of grass that circled the mulched chips that were spread on the playground's floor.
"There must be a kid," he thought.
There was the possibility that Max would look up at that very moment and see Gene Wilson staring at him from his bedroom window, but no such event happened. Max walked back home to study pentagons, and Gene propped up his pillow for a good night's rest.
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