(Written on Sunday. I'm catching up, though...)

Not much happened on Friday, aside from writing three journal entries (one of them twice), so let me fill in a few more details from Thursday instead.

This time around, I was across the street, and saw a whole bunch of kids -- if I had to guess, I'd say they were seventh graders, but I could be wrong -- clustered by the fence, clearly waiting for somebody to stop by and retrieve a ball or something hit over the fence. They can't get out, see, so they need help when that happens. So I crossed the street, and immediately saw the object of their desire: A Frisbee.

One of those newfangled frisbees, in fact, made of cloth, with a hole in the middle, and a plastic (I think) ring to give it stability. No problem. I put down my art supplies, picked up the frisbee, and threw it over the fence... and it never even came close, zooming right back towards me. I tried again, and again the wind caught it, bringing it right back.

By this time, one of the more perceptive kids motioned for me to just hand it to him under the fence, but, no, I had to go for the challenge and defeat the elements! So I threw it one more time.

This time the wind carried it right into a tree branch, where it stuck.

Great.

I threw my glove at it, but couldn't quite get it high enough. Somebody else tossed a football out, and I threw that at it a few times, missing. I then tossed it back inside to a kid who was sure he could get the thing down.

He fired the football, which rocketed straight through the tree (missing the frisbee by a couple of feet) and landing across the street. Oops.

I ran across, got the ball, crossed back, and threw the thing up one more time, this time winging the frisbee and bringing it down. So I threw the football back over, and passed the frisbee underneath. And there was much rejoicing.

And then I put my gloves back on, picked up my art supplies, and went to class.

"Do you know how much of this issue I wrote?!" I wailed, when he stopped by.

"Oh, you're involved at the paper?" he said.

"I was until last week," I replied.

"Well, it comes in very handy in class," he said, or something to that effect. In a nice sort of way.

I did, however, take the opportunity to speak to him afterwards. First, he looked over what I'd ended up painting. It was a step in the right direction, but he wished I'd incorporated more shades of gray into it.

Then he stopped. "But you're a minimalist," he said.

Yep. That I am.

He nodded. "Still, I wish you could find a way of getting a few more grays in there."

That isn't going to be easy, but we'll see, I guess.

See, I'm a minimalist for two reasons:

1. I like keeping things simple, for esthetic reasons. Clutter doesn't do much for me.

2. I find it much easier to do. The more elements I have to deal with, the harder it is to get it to work. Adding additional colors or shades makes it almost exponentially more difficult.

This was actually the final issue of last semester, in which I edited the Op/Ed section, wrote my Op/Ed column, wrote a review of Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie, edited the poetry section, and wrote a half-page of filler. All of which I showed him.

He asked me what I'd like to do with my English major. Supposing I could just press a button, and-- wham! --get any job I wanted, what would I do?

If it were that simple, I replied, I'd get a tenure-track position at a university, where I could teach English while editing a journal on the side, while working on my novel in my spare time.

"The novel would be after all that?" he asked. Hmmm. Well, yes, actually. I think I'm a better editor than writer, especially when it comes to fiction. And I enjoy editing. But I want to be able to do both. Which is where the tenure-track position comes in, to enable me to do everything. To be honest, teaching is my third choice, otherwise. At least at the moment.

Okay. This is getting long, and I still have two more entries to write. So I'm going to cheat. I'll continue this in "Saturday's" entry.