On Saturday, while I sat in the classroom waiting for final papers to arrive, dialed in to the other campuses for half an hour at 8:30 a.m. and again at 1:00 p.m., I finished the following rough drawing in a sketchbook I've begun carrying around. It's not a fabulous drawing, but one that started as nothing and slowly became something, even if it isn't the most stellar example of draughtsmanship. It has the sad, stoic intensity that makes it somewhat worthwhile to post here. I call him "Uncle Gregory". His imagined back-story is below.
"Uncle Gregory was bookish, vaguely academic. He read voraciously. He stood and watched the sky at night until his eyes took on its color. For awhile, he taught English literature at university, but eventually wandered away to Prince Edward Island, where he bought a telescope and charted the stars. He wrote us long, incoherent letters about the end of time and how it was plotted in the stars, if you only knew where to look. He remained haunted by something none of us understood."