Why so quiet? I've been elsewhere: at the priory, with Herman, at school, with books, and today off to Colorado Springs for the ACM Committee on Minority Concerns spring meeting for which I'm a faculty representative from Knox. I miss being here, though. When the week settles into routine after Easter, I'll make a point of keeping record of present days again. Just now, my past is with me, a separate notebook where I keep recalling what must be confessed. This is no place for confessions.
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Why confess? So much I've secreted away as if it is my responsibility to keep such things in a safe hold, far from others. And now? The public confession, no. I can't tackle that in the few minutes I have to think this morning before turning to Donne and Shelley in the classroom. And you would expect me to address confessionalism as we know it, its Romantic pejorative and its lingering Beat reek, its perversions, its poor poetry, and I can't. I'm not ready to talk to you about it. The private confession, though. That my role is to hand my secrets over to one whose role is to keep my secrets. Whose role--out of love--is to listen, bear with me, turn my mind towards light. It reminds me I feel vulnerable because I am dependent, among others, on others. The secret implies that you matter to me. The confession implies that I tell you so.
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