July 13, 2003 Brookline
A promised drive up the north coast saw all four of us into Glochester, where we ate with the other tourists on Bear Skin Jetty or Pier, the story of its name owing to a sad, pitiful episode in 1700 when a bear trapped by the tide was killed on the spot. We ate clam chowder and talked about education policy.

Astounding number of French speakers about, whom C. never fails to miss. A tour group from Quebec would explain it all (I have yet to make plans for Montréal!), but since she's arrived we can't seem to go anywhere without overhearing someone speaking French to someone else.

Bastille Day, 2003 Brookline
7h15. C. dreamed that she worked in a middle school and had a driver to take her there named Irene Serb. Myself, I've got horrible back pain that I hope isn't related to the odd sense of something extra inside my gut which has diminished, but not disappeared.

On coming home, I find her preparing ratatouille, one of my favorite simple French dishes. She went and bought the vegetables from the Russian grocery, where they speak not a word of English, go figure. Hard day at the school. Didn't have a chance to eat as time forced me into a choice between a seven dollar sandwich and pissing. Running like hell. Two weeks of my existence, at least, will completely revolve around the school. And I won't even have a Boxter at the end of it all! Zut alors!

July 15, 2003 Brookline
Ate absolutely nothing until 18h30 today. Literally did not have time. How is it I can accept conditions like these? Couldn't do it unless this were a temporary position. Haven't written a word since beginning, save these pages. And RD has sent his book, so must begin that this weekend. Am looking forward to it with equal parts interest and dread.

My Italian student has a German (Austrian) accent. My Chinese student (Cantonese speaker) has a New York accent. I'm still getting away with a ninety-percent discount on my subway ride to school by using a ten centime (Euro) coin instead of a token. Allons faire chier le "man."

July 16, 2003 Brookline
Met an odd, agreeable group of Francophones in Cambridge last night. C. seemed to be happy to speak French with strangers. Nevertheless, she's really settling in and having a great time and I'm happy to hear about her little adventures to the library and the municipal pool. Myself, I'm running like hell, making things up as I go along, often to my students' displeasure. Hey, Boxter owners, let me put this in terms I think you can understand: imagine giving seven presentations every day (without recourse to Powerpoint) to people who don't necessarily speak your language, who don't observe Boxterworld's business protocol, and who feel free to laugh and giggle rather than respect the Boxter's authroity. Anyway, off we went off to Cambridge after I had been home for half an hour. Fun talking with other Americans in French. I've come a long way!

July 17, 2003 Brookline
Another hellish day of constant distraction. Preparing like hell for the next five minutes every ten minutes. Can see every single minute of my life for the next few weeks blocked out before me. Have to run but want to run in the opposite direction.

July 18, 2003 Boston
Sitting on my ass, under Channing's statue on the corner of Boylston and Arlington. I must have given C. the wrong address when she asked me last night where we should meet. She wasn't there when I finished with the Swiss and French and Chinese. She didn't appear as I waited and printed pages of J.'s journal. Walked up and down St. James in one of those profitless moments of our lives we consacrate to longshot actions, buying lottery tickets, looking for lost books we knew better than ourselves in childhood. Walked past bored, exhausted white people tucking in to margaritas. Walked past the building guards again.

I'm at low ebb, but nobody knows where I am. I could just go on across to Arlington Street Church, go downstairs to the mission, step out of my life, not that my life needs stepping out of. It's seductive anyway. Become one of the hustlers spitting at each other for a light in the soft rain. A Japanese family makes its way across the bricks into the public garden, each person covered in identical yellow plastic ponchos. They're semi transluscent; I'm transparent. My liver and whatever that is above my appendix that still hasn't gone away, are right there on view for anyone who wants to stop and look on Arlington street, just to the left of Channing's statue.

Grim message over the intercom on the way home: "I've just been assaulted. Call the police," causes general hilarity among the sweaty, already-drunk Red Sox fans, who doubtlessly are laughing off even larger grimnesses in their lives. I don't know whether the ironyless message or their laughter is more chilling.

July 19, 2003 Brookline
Reading the first fifty pages of R.'s book, trying to decide whether I can be of use to him. I guess I know as much as anybody about what provoked it. So full of pain. How to unburden an unburdening that must needs fail. I must fail. How do you say "put this here" and this here when his whole life is thusly disarranged around this book.

It's heavy. It's five hundred pages and one page at the same time. It's heavy. I'll fail. He wants to know my price. I said "free" but he said "no." This will be the last book I edit, my unremarked swan song to a task that so often ends sadly. Those of you who owe me, you owe me still. Did I do you good? Did I help? Did you say you respected my advice but did not take it? You owe me for my time, for those of you with whom I no longer enjoy good will. Were you unwise? We all fall down. Not everybody helps. Me too, now.