Colm decamped to his sanctuary in upstate New York many months ago—the home he refers to as Chateau De Bris—and the only contact I’ve had with him has been the poems that arrive in my inbox. Calls go unanswered and the College contacted me last week asking about both his whereabouts and his well being. Also the interim Chair—a whole other story—asked me if Colm now fancies himself a poet:
Chair
Is this something he’s pursuing to the exclusion of everything else?
Turdling
Right now it is.
Chair
Is that what he told you?
Turdling
I haven’t spoken to him in months.
Chair
I thought you two were close.
Turdling
We are, that’s why I’m leaving him alone.
Chair
I need to know how committed he is to his roster of fall classes.
Turdling
That’s something you should ask him.
Chair
You’re not offering up much in the way of help here.
Turdling
I noticed that immediately.
I do not like the interim Chair; the prospect of him ripping out what’s left of his hair in frustration delights me and Colm’s vanishing act will further reinforce the growing perception of the Chair’s ineptitude. While Colm has disappeared in the past, and I know better than to track him down before he’s ready to re-emerge, this does seem like a situation that requires intervention. One last string of lighthearted texts failed and his phone now cuts right to a full inbox. Desperate times, desperate measures, and so I have decided, with a certain amount of trepidation, to pack up and make a trip to the upper Hudson valley.
The Observations of A.E. Turdling 