Tiniest in-box ever

Let's savor this moment.

I've just whittled my in-box down to four little messages, and only one of them is really out-dated (from almost a year ago).

We're at a critical point here, people. Faculty are already starting to trickle back. I see them wandering around in the 98-degree heat, with their wrinkled shorts and pale legs. Last night I went to my neighborhood bar and encountered a few dining al fresco.

Very soon, probably Monday, they will resume their clamoring--requests for web sites or media coverage, color printers, whatever strokes the ego. The students will return the week after that.

This afternoon, I'm going to sit and enjoy the silence of my in-box.

Blah

I don't know, blog. I'm just not feeling it these days.

The annual work bowl-a-rama is today, and not even that has roused me above blah. Usually, I look forward to it like a kid to Christmas, although last year's did leave me curiously hollow. Sometimes the Big Fun can't live up to the picture in your mind. Maybe that's why this year I'm taking the opposite approach. Expect nothing, and hope to be surprised.

I had a couple of strange dreams last night, and though the details of plot and character escape me, the thing that stuck was the feeling of unbearable sadness I had during both. It's surprising whenever something seems especially realistic or tangible in a dream, and that's what I gained (or lost?) last night.