They are only the entr'acte
to a gust of
fresh wind with a new taste
and wide views of
something the landscape artists
just refaced.
Step inside and leave behind
the old,
paint-peeling,
lifeless
set. It folds into my window view
that clouds obscure.
Closed For Renovations.
Wait for it
unfolding, newmade:
the cloud-curtain rises on
fresh paint and adventure.
Complementary bag of peanuts?
—maybe Jack's Magic Beans.
I sat with friends on the lawn behind the Maeser. The conversation had evolved from the Economics of Gift Giving to the True Love of God, and no one seemed to notice the paper cup. It had escaped from someone’s snack garbage and encouraged by the gusty wind was making a break for the free world.
I considered stopping it. I would clamber to my feet, and hunching to avert attention, scramble around the circle to intercept the runaway. Bending down (ungracefully of course, for it is difficult to stoop and collect garbage with any measure of finesse) I reach as it stalls then follow as it tumbles on—a sequence repeated across the grass in an unaccompanied and increasingly complicated Charleston Swing: two-step-jog bend reach ‘n’ miss again, follow the lead of the little paper cup.
I didn’t move. Instead I watched it stumble-trip alone across the lawn and out of my peripheral vision. I heard it scuttled across the sidewalk and onto the asphalt; the clatter like a herd of crabs—a pod of paper cups—skittering for the ledge and stairs and then trees.
It went and I sat and listened to them talk of God’s Love—saturated with His Goodness. He never requires only gives and gives and gives. He is never depleted for giving selflessly, infinitely. We can never return, let alone pay in full. Even if we tried; we are too human. But still God never stops reaching.
When I can't tell someone’s left hand from their right, I simply set them at the piano—
mentally, of course.
The melody is to their right
and the low, droning bit to their left.
Billy Collins is a lean and tender
T-bone steak, best served rare
with a side salad and something light;
perhaps a sweet Cabernet Franc.
It should not be served with inordinate
amounts of BestWest Steak Sauce,
as if a bottle of that
could sharpen the wit of him.
Principles of Biology has left
a dry aftertaste, and I sit down
salivating for a succulent cut
of the real meat.
Unfortunately, my teacher cooks
experimentally,
and with Sunflower hot-mitts she serves
to us Lecture 29:
Poetry Meatloaf. Which is not
fresh or moist or seasoned right.
But I am hungry. And she doesn’t seem
to have anything else on hand.
Shakespeare in bite-size bits and
Collins ground in with Nash
and something green that doesn’t
seem to belong to anyone
all garnished with slivered Poe
and a slimy ketchup marinara.
It slices neatly and leaves no crumbs
and everyone tucks in quietly.
Except my vegan study partner
who sips her Algebra noisily.
I choke a bit and try
To swallow gallantly.
Meatloaf is barbaric.
A good friend once asked what of the things I feared did I most want to do? I answered rather patronizingly, that I didn’t want to do anything I feared because I don’t like the things I am afraid of because I am afraid of them.
Since then I have realized how many fears I confront each day and strangely enough I have found a masochistic pleasure of sorts in digging from the depths of my soul the things I fear the most.
Then I take a deep breath and jump.
My greatest fears are, ostensibly, the dark and boys. The first seems too cliché to be true, the second too ridiculous, but there is nothing that frightens me quite so much as walking home in the dark, and there is nothing that makes my quite so uneasy as looking a boy in the eyes. I am sure, dear reader, you can only imagine my utter dread at the prospect of a safe walk! But I digress; it is enough to say that these have become rather commonplace fears and facing them a rather mundane exercise in self-actualization.
So I dig.
On my birthday my Dad set the beautiful dark chocolate raspberry torte in front of me and handed me the knife, at which point I panicked. I am 20 years old, and I am afraid of cutting my own birthday cake. I looked at it sitting there innocently on the plate:
I’m pretty sure that's undefined. Which might explain why it scares me. It's the same thing with pie:
yep. Irrational and imaginary.
Dig.
The Darfur Action Committee was the most unorganized band of six people I had every seen crammed in a HBLL study room. To my query regarding authority one quiet girl answered, “I think there was a president. Maybe named Ben? He’s been MIA for about a year.”
I don’t mind sitting in on meetings, I sign petitions, and I donated my $10 to Ralph Nader’s Alternative Commencement, but I am terrified of responsibility, of standing in front of a crowed, exposed for their criticism. What if I have to answer questions? What if they want information I don’t know?
I raised my hand and said I could organize a petition. Nikki asked me to be co-president. Sure. And I volunteered to speak on China’s Policy on Darfur.
Dig.
I made dinner for my roommates last week.
I called a friend for no reason yesterday.
I walked in the dark.
I blogged.
I like to write.
I like big words.
I like little-known grammar rules.
When I write down my thoughts, I like to use a thesaurus to help me learn new big words.
I do this because I think simple writing is dumb.
Maybe my writing is confusing, but it is better to confuse some readers than to write boring things.
But forgive, dear reader, my verbosity; I have simply imbibed too much Charles Dickens.
I woke up late and decided to dress in last winter’s olive green. My hands looked for my Gap-long-sleeved in the colorblind dim of 7:15, feeling and weighing any darkness with arms.
But. I’ve developed a habit of putting away clothes in my laundry bin, or in the Rubbermaids under my bed, or sometimes in the bankerbox on my closet shelf. Rarely will I fold clothes into my chest of drawers, and only with great patience and soji will I ever hang up a thing. This makes dressing more like treasure hunting, the excitement of which is usually enough to entice me out of bed. This morning, however, the excitement was lost on me as I rummaged, grumbling, though all my worldly possessions.
The brush-teeth and out-the-door hour ticked past as I emptied my drawers and repacked them.
I don’t particularly like olive green. I didn’t like it last winter either, but since I had decided upon the thing, I couldn’t see much sense in reconsidering. In fact, at 7:45 it’s still difficult to see much of anything.
Five blocks away, the bell rang delivering students from 7 am class, and I found my gapstretchT folded between two pair of jeans—incidentally, right where I put it Saturday.
I was late to for Greek, but what’s a few minutes on a lovely spring morning? Some students get a week of spring break—you wouldn't begrudge me 10 minutes?
Though it was a bit cool for a real spring break. Fortunately, I wore a sweater buttoned up warmly all day.
Posts
All Comments
