Thursday, September 30, 2004
...to Experience
The challenging aspect of being in the working world in your mid- to late-20s is this:
-- You're old enough so that it's difficult to be surprised or impressed by anything.
-- You realize that many of the people overseeing you are not as smart as you are. You may be in no position to make a difference, but you have an idea; yet people above you have never even considered what seems so obvious to you.
-- No one older than 30 takes anyone under 30 seriously.
And the pay sucks.
-- You're old enough so that it's difficult to be surprised or impressed by anything.
-- You realize that many of the people overseeing you are not as smart as you are. You may be in no position to make a difference, but you have an idea; yet people above you have never even considered what seems so obvious to you.
-- No one older than 30 takes anyone under 30 seriously.
And the pay sucks.
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Velocity, by Billy Collins
Velocity
In the club car that morning I had my notebook
open on my lap and my pen uncapped,
looking every inch the writer
right down to the little writer’s frown on my face,
but there was nothing to write
about except life and death
and the low warning sound of the train whistle.
I did not want to write about the scenery
that was flashing past, cows spread over a pasture,
hay rolled up meticulously—
things you see once and will never see again.
But I kept my pen moving by drawing
over and over again
the face of a motorcyclist in profile—
for no reason I can think of—
a biker with sunglasses and a weak chin,
leaning forward, helmetless,
his long thin hair trailing behind him in the wind.
I also drew many lines to indicate speed,
to show the air becoming visible
as it broke over the biker’s face
the way it was breaking over the face
of the locomotive that was pulling me
toward Omaha and whatever lay beyond Omaha
for me and all the other stops to make
before the time would arrive to stop for good.
We must always look at things
from the point of view of eternity,
the college theologians used to insist,
from which, I imagine, we would all
appear to have speed lines trailing behind us
as we rush along the road of the world,
as we rush down the long tunnel of time—
the biker, of course, drunk on the wind,
but also the man reading by a fire,
speed lines coming off his shoulders and his book,
and the woman standing on a beach
studying the curve of horizon,
even the child asleep on a summer night,
speed lines flying from the posters of her bed,
from the white tips of the pillowcases,
and from the edges of her perfectly motionless body.
In the club car that morning I had my notebook
open on my lap and my pen uncapped,
looking every inch the writer
right down to the little writer’s frown on my face,
but there was nothing to write
about except life and death
and the low warning sound of the train whistle.
I did not want to write about the scenery
that was flashing past, cows spread over a pasture,
hay rolled up meticulously—
things you see once and will never see again.
But I kept my pen moving by drawing
over and over again
the face of a motorcyclist in profile—
for no reason I can think of—
a biker with sunglasses and a weak chin,
leaning forward, helmetless,
his long thin hair trailing behind him in the wind.
I also drew many lines to indicate speed,
to show the air becoming visible
as it broke over the biker’s face
the way it was breaking over the face
of the locomotive that was pulling me
toward Omaha and whatever lay beyond Omaha
for me and all the other stops to make
before the time would arrive to stop for good.
We must always look at things
from the point of view of eternity,
the college theologians used to insist,
from which, I imagine, we would all
appear to have speed lines trailing behind us
as we rush along the road of the world,
as we rush down the long tunnel of time—
the biker, of course, drunk on the wind,
but also the man reading by a fire,
speed lines coming off his shoulders and his book,
and the woman standing on a beach
studying the curve of horizon,
even the child asleep on a summer night,
speed lines flying from the posters of her bed,
from the white tips of the pillowcases,
and from the edges of her perfectly motionless body.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Reader Response
What the hell is up with today's post? I know you posted it at like 3:00 in the morning, but that's no excuse.
No, of course not.
You start out with that old girlfriend story, which is interesting enough, but pretty insignificant. I get the feeling you're sentimental about it, which doesn't work too well. What's to be sentimental about?
Not much to be sentimental about. But I worry about losing memories like that. It would be losing perspective.
And then after the Dylan quote, you move on to a completely unrelated story. It's like, 'what is this, "the old girlfriend post"?' Where's the transition? What meaning are you trying to imply? That the failure of that relationship somehow 'leads' to the wreckage or postscript of the other? Were they both so insignificant that you just lopped them together like this?
Agreed. It was a bit lazy on my part.
And what's with that title? "Wrecking the Expectation of a Windmill"?! What the hell is that?
Not my greatest, I acknowledge.
I see you're going for alliteration with the "Wrecking" and the "Windmill", but it's just reaching. I mean, what are you implying with "windmill"? Is that your symbol for the whole male position this post urged -- something along the lines of the slighted guy who carries a torch -- but he's a windmill: always working, always standing strong against the wind of those tough relationships.
Now that you put it that way, it is a bit ridiculous, isn't it?
And let's face it: what the hell are the expectations of a windmill? I just get the sense that you're trying too hard. I just bring this up, because you mentioned one time about wanting to be warned when your writing started getting cheesy.
Yeah. You may be right.
It wasn't a total loss. That part at the end -- "It got to be that some nights, I'd look forward to the wind over the bridge, my hands in my pockets, the buzz in my head, and those inviting, warm lights shining out of the closed, locked windows of random homes." -- that's nice. That's the reason I come to this site. That's a neat image -- warm, inviting lights through locked and random windows. That's what I expect out of this site. None of this bullshit about windmills or Wonder Woman.
Fair enough. Y'all come back now.
No, of course not.
You start out with that old girlfriend story, which is interesting enough, but pretty insignificant. I get the feeling you're sentimental about it, which doesn't work too well. What's to be sentimental about?
Not much to be sentimental about. But I worry about losing memories like that. It would be losing perspective.
And then after the Dylan quote, you move on to a completely unrelated story. It's like, 'what is this, "the old girlfriend post"?' Where's the transition? What meaning are you trying to imply? That the failure of that relationship somehow 'leads' to the wreckage or postscript of the other? Were they both so insignificant that you just lopped them together like this?
Agreed. It was a bit lazy on my part.
And what's with that title? "Wrecking the Expectation of a Windmill"?! What the hell is that?
Not my greatest, I acknowledge.
I see you're going for alliteration with the "Wrecking" and the "Windmill", but it's just reaching. I mean, what are you implying with "windmill"? Is that your symbol for the whole male position this post urged -- something along the lines of the slighted guy who carries a torch -- but he's a windmill: always working, always standing strong against the wind of those tough relationships.
Now that you put it that way, it is a bit ridiculous, isn't it?
And let's face it: what the hell are the expectations of a windmill? I just get the sense that you're trying too hard. I just bring this up, because you mentioned one time about wanting to be warned when your writing started getting cheesy.
Yeah. You may be right.
It wasn't a total loss. That part at the end -- "It got to be that some nights, I'd look forward to the wind over the bridge, my hands in my pockets, the buzz in my head, and those inviting, warm lights shining out of the closed, locked windows of random homes." -- that's nice. That's the reason I come to this site. That's a neat image -- warm, inviting lights through locked and random windows. That's what I expect out of this site. None of this bullshit about windmills or Wonder Woman.
Fair enough. Y'all come back now.
Wrecking the Expectation of a Windmill
I once went on a "study date" with a girl to a place called "The Acoustic Cafe". I immediately knew the relationship was doomed when I realized she actually came to study, but all I wanted to do was talk to her.
"You're gonna need my help, Sweetheart. You can't make love all by yourself."
A long time -- longer than you are thinking, right now -- after the breakup of another relationship, I left the house and wandered across the river to walk among the green lawns and spacious yards of that mixed neighborhood. I knew this girl lived on that side of the river, and I would walk down the streets, looking in the lit windows, guessing which house was hers. I imagined her life was not much more impressive than mine: full of cigarettes, bars, books, and timely gossip. Maybe not. Maybe she was Wonder Woman after breaking up with me. A chain-smoking Wonder Woman.
I wandered over there more than I should admit, but I never looked up her house, or found her, or did anything remotely interesting, except sit on a bench in front of the river, and weigh my own drunkenness.
Some nights, I'd stop in at the local cop bar and drink, but that never provided much comfort. There was no one in there that I could fit in with, so all I really had was the television and the beer. And the place was usually too loud to hear the TV. So that left the beer, and with no one else to talk to, it went down too fast. Then I'd end up on the park bench again, or home.
But it was never cold. And I dimly remember feeling as if I was making some sort of progress, not unlike an artist who keeps expanding the canvas, bringing more into the frame than he ever originally intended. It got to be that some nights, I'd look forward to the wind over the bridge, my hands in my pockets, the buzz in my head, and those inviting, warm lights shining out of the closed, locked windows of random homes.
"You're gonna need my help, Sweetheart. You can't make love all by yourself."
A long time -- longer than you are thinking, right now -- after the breakup of another relationship, I left the house and wandered across the river to walk among the green lawns and spacious yards of that mixed neighborhood. I knew this girl lived on that side of the river, and I would walk down the streets, looking in the lit windows, guessing which house was hers. I imagined her life was not much more impressive than mine: full of cigarettes, bars, books, and timely gossip. Maybe not. Maybe she was Wonder Woman after breaking up with me. A chain-smoking Wonder Woman.
I wandered over there more than I should admit, but I never looked up her house, or found her, or did anything remotely interesting, except sit on a bench in front of the river, and weigh my own drunkenness.
Some nights, I'd stop in at the local cop bar and drink, but that never provided much comfort. There was no one in there that I could fit in with, so all I really had was the television and the beer. And the place was usually too loud to hear the TV. So that left the beer, and with no one else to talk to, it went down too fast. Then I'd end up on the park bench again, or home.
But it was never cold. And I dimly remember feeling as if I was making some sort of progress, not unlike an artist who keeps expanding the canvas, bringing more into the frame than he ever originally intended. It got to be that some nights, I'd look forward to the wind over the bridge, my hands in my pockets, the buzz in my head, and those inviting, warm lights shining out of the closed, locked windows of random homes.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Two Conversations
"But why are they taking the night back?"
"It's a good cause. It empowers women."
"Women already run this culture."
"You're just afraid of women."
"Can you blame me? I'm married to one."
"It's a good cause."
"But who are they taking the night back from? And when did it get stolen?"
"You are ignorant."
"Well, it seems to happen every year. You'd think one year they'd take it back for good and then store it some place safe so it wouldn't get stolen again."
***
"No, it's not necessary."
"Yes. It is."
"No, I'm saving us money this way. And it saves me time."
"You are being lazy. It has to be every time."
"But if I know I've had some coffee, and that I'm gonna be in there in another 10 minutes, it just makes sense to handle it 10 minutes later."
"You're disgusting."
"I'm saving us water."
"Damnit, Will , will you just flush the toilet after every time you use it?"
"It's a good cause. It empowers women."
"Women already run this culture."
"You're just afraid of women."
"Can you blame me? I'm married to one."
"It's a good cause."
"But who are they taking the night back from? And when did it get stolen?"
"You are ignorant."
"Well, it seems to happen every year. You'd think one year they'd take it back for good and then store it some place safe so it wouldn't get stolen again."
***
"No, it's not necessary."
"Yes. It is."
"No, I'm saving us money this way. And it saves me time."
"You are being lazy. It has to be every time."
"But if I know I've had some coffee, and that I'm gonna be in there in another 10 minutes, it just makes sense to handle it 10 minutes later."
"You're disgusting."
"I'm saving us water."
"Damnit, Will , will you just flush the toilet after every time you use it?"
Monday, September 20, 2004
Random Thoughts on a Sunny Packer Game
- If you've never been to Lambeau Field, the thing you'll carry with you after the towering statues of Curly and Vince, the lush interior, or the game, is the tiny seat sizes. In the winter, being pressed body-to-body on those cold metal bleachers helps. Nothing like body heat to keep one going. But on a warm, late summer day -- with sun enough to redden one half of this face -- it doesn't work so well. I've got it down pretty well: I crouch forward. Most people sit back and just try to hold their knees in. Still, I wonder how anyone weighing more than 200 lbs makes it through a game.
- There's something about being in a crowd that big that gets me thinking of writing. I've been struggling like hell to write this female character in my book. And thanks to the Packers seating me in back of a brunette who's the perfect age of my character, I now know how to describe her (the back of her, anyway).
- It's always best when they introduce the offense, simply because we don't have a defense worthy of introduction. Usually, they introduce each player, the crowd shouts, and then the player comes out and does some stupid dance or jog. But when they get to #4, the crowd goes so loud, and Brett's so jacked for it, that the camera can't even focus on him. He spends no time waiting. Before they even call his name, he's sprinting out of the tunnel, ready to go. There are better quarterbacks, but there's no one else I'd want on my team.
- There's this crabby, old guy who always sits in back of us. Some of his one-liners from yesterday:
When I sat down and put my sister's seat down next to me (you can rent these little seats to put down on the bleachers that makes the sitting experience about .159862473569% better):
"Oh, boy. Another one of those darn-it-all seats to sit behind."
To the people in front of us, who tried to start "the wave" in the fourth quarter:
"You don't do 'the wave' when we've got the ball, dummy!"
When people stood up to watch a big play, because everyone in front of them stood up:
"Down in front! Down in front! I didn't come to standing-room-only!"
To the guy in front of me, who lit up a cig:
(Walking down into my row and grabbing the guy by the shoulder): "Put it out, buddy! There's no smoking in the stands! You put it out, or I'll get security to put it out for you!" (Man puts out cig. Security still escorts the guy out.)
- They had more than 100 alumni from past teams there at halftime. And when they introduced each player, the fans gave some polite cheering. It was good to see some of the old guys from the 80s. But most of the guys were way before my Packer-watching days. The one truly notable feature in the whole ceremony was when they got to Bart Starr. They introduced him, and he walked forward like anyone else. But the crowd exploded in cheers and clapping. Parents pointed to their kids to look at the big screen. Bear fans put down beers and clapped. It lasted more than a minute. And for that minute, it felt more important than halftime.
- Overall, I give credit to the Bear fans. They were polite, kind, only slightly obnoxious, and for the most part friendly. It's clear why this isn't the rivalry the Packers-Vikings rivalry is. We may not like the Bears, but at least we can stand their fans. There's more honesty in this rivalry. Bears fans knew their team got a rare one yesterday. Packers fans knew their team was overrated, and has little chance to get beyond a first-round play-off game, if that.
- As my sister put it: "What is up with Packers games and ass-grabbers?" A very good question that I have no answer for. But she's right. Almost every game I go to, in the row in front of me, there's a husband who's gotta have his hand on him wife's ass for half the game. Sometimes it's like the guy in front of me yesterday, who occasionally slapped his wife's ass. Sometimes it like the guy in front and to the left of me yesterday, who kept digging in his wife's pocket (not that there was anything in there, mind you). It's just nothing anyone wants to see. Do they think there's no one in back of them like 2 inches away?
- I sat next to this cute little girl, and I never saw her face because she had this Packer hat on that was three times too large for her head. She also had a Packer jersey on that was so big that her body was simply lost underneath it. She was a "special" kid, and every now and then she'd scream out, "Come on, Brett! Come on, buddy! Throw a touchdown!" (Of course they were 80 yards from the end zone at that point.) She had this sort of lisp, so every now and then, people in front of her would turn around, surprised. Nobody was mean to her, they were just curious. Then, at one point in the fourth quarter, right after Brett threw his 2nd interception, I got up and screamed, "Oh, shoot me in the head, why don't you?" The little girl gets up and screams in her little lispy voice, "Come on, you fockers!" I look over at her, shocked. Then I look up at her dad. Her dad looks down at her and says, "Way to tell 'em, Sweetie."
- There's something about being in a crowd that big that gets me thinking of writing. I've been struggling like hell to write this female character in my book. And thanks to the Packers seating me in back of a brunette who's the perfect age of my character, I now know how to describe her (the back of her, anyway).
- It's always best when they introduce the offense, simply because we don't have a defense worthy of introduction. Usually, they introduce each player, the crowd shouts, and then the player comes out and does some stupid dance or jog. But when they get to #4, the crowd goes so loud, and Brett's so jacked for it, that the camera can't even focus on him. He spends no time waiting. Before they even call his name, he's sprinting out of the tunnel, ready to go. There are better quarterbacks, but there's no one else I'd want on my team.
- There's this crabby, old guy who always sits in back of us. Some of his one-liners from yesterday:
When I sat down and put my sister's seat down next to me (you can rent these little seats to put down on the bleachers that makes the sitting experience about .159862473569% better):
"Oh, boy. Another one of those darn-it-all seats to sit behind."
To the people in front of us, who tried to start "the wave" in the fourth quarter:
"You don't do 'the wave' when we've got the ball, dummy!"
When people stood up to watch a big play, because everyone in front of them stood up:
"Down in front! Down in front! I didn't come to standing-room-only!"
To the guy in front of me, who lit up a cig:
(Walking down into my row and grabbing the guy by the shoulder): "Put it out, buddy! There's no smoking in the stands! You put it out, or I'll get security to put it out for you!" (Man puts out cig. Security still escorts the guy out.)
- They had more than 100 alumni from past teams there at halftime. And when they introduced each player, the fans gave some polite cheering. It was good to see some of the old guys from the 80s. But most of the guys were way before my Packer-watching days. The one truly notable feature in the whole ceremony was when they got to Bart Starr. They introduced him, and he walked forward like anyone else. But the crowd exploded in cheers and clapping. Parents pointed to their kids to look at the big screen. Bear fans put down beers and clapped. It lasted more than a minute. And for that minute, it felt more important than halftime.
- Overall, I give credit to the Bear fans. They were polite, kind, only slightly obnoxious, and for the most part friendly. It's clear why this isn't the rivalry the Packers-Vikings rivalry is. We may not like the Bears, but at least we can stand their fans. There's more honesty in this rivalry. Bears fans knew their team got a rare one yesterday. Packers fans knew their team was overrated, and has little chance to get beyond a first-round play-off game, if that.
- As my sister put it: "What is up with Packers games and ass-grabbers?" A very good question that I have no answer for. But she's right. Almost every game I go to, in the row in front of me, there's a husband who's gotta have his hand on him wife's ass for half the game. Sometimes it's like the guy in front of me yesterday, who occasionally slapped his wife's ass. Sometimes it like the guy in front and to the left of me yesterday, who kept digging in his wife's pocket (not that there was anything in there, mind you). It's just nothing anyone wants to see. Do they think there's no one in back of them like 2 inches away?
- I sat next to this cute little girl, and I never saw her face because she had this Packer hat on that was three times too large for her head. She also had a Packer jersey on that was so big that her body was simply lost underneath it. She was a "special" kid, and every now and then she'd scream out, "Come on, Brett! Come on, buddy! Throw a touchdown!" (Of course they were 80 yards from the end zone at that point.) She had this sort of lisp, so every now and then, people in front of her would turn around, surprised. Nobody was mean to her, they were just curious. Then, at one point in the fourth quarter, right after Brett threw his 2nd interception, I got up and screamed, "Oh, shoot me in the head, why don't you?" The little girl gets up and screams in her little lispy voice, "Come on, you fockers!" I look over at her, shocked. Then I look up at her dad. Her dad looks down at her and says, "Way to tell 'em, Sweetie."
Saturday, September 18, 2004
The Problem With Honesty
Is you get guys like this:
Ian's IDEAL Girl:
Physical Appearance: (Yes, I'm relatively superficial...don't even try it. You know you are too!)
- Hair Color: Doesn't matter (not something crazy like pink though ;))
- Eyes: Doesn't matter as long as they're nice
- Body Type (based on the Lemontonic options): Slim, Fit or *Average
- Ethnicity: Doesn't matter
- Height: 5' 1'' - 5' 9''
- Clothes Style: Casual
- Lung Size: A - C
- Nice smile / laugh
- Nice voice (not obnoxious)
- Cear complexion / skin
*Average: If you consider yourself somewhat overweight, I have established 3 categories for that. They are : "Chubby", "Chunky" and "FAT". Chubby is perfectly fine if you're cute...Chunky means you might be pushing it...and FAT means you probably outweigh me by about 40-50Lbs and you should find a treadmill. Basically, on a scale of 1-10 (Physical appearance), I would go for girls who are anywhere from 5 to 9. If you're a 5 you would have to fill 99% of the personality pre-requisites (see below).
Physical Looks Ratings Scale:
10 - Perfect (I have yet to meet this girl)
9 - VERY good looking
8 - Good looking
7 - Somewhat good looking
6 - Average
5 - OK at best
4 - NOT Good looking
3 - UGLY
2 - Looking at you makes some people sick
1 - You shouldn't be going outside (I have yet to see this too!)
Now to the tricky part- Personality Requirements / Emotional Intelligence / Habits (Not necessarily in order):
- Religion: Christian (i.e. you have to believe in SOMETHING...what happens when you die?)
- Smoking: NEVER. (Visualize making out with an ashtray! :) )
- Drinking: Sometimes. (i.e. everything in moderation :))
- Ambitious
- Intelligent / Educated (the whole intelligence vs. education will be explained in a future entry)
- Can think for herself (i.e. not afraid to disagree with me!) (there's limits to this of course...)
- Tactful
- Strong (emotionally not necessarily physically ;) )
- Good listener (cuz I talk A LOT!)
- Honest
- Culturally / Socially aware
- Adventurous / Likes to travel
- Musical (preferable if you can play an instrument or sing, but at the VERY LEAST appreciate music)
- Likes to help people
- Likes to have a good time but can also stay in and 'chill'
- Good sense of humour (i.e. you should laugh at a minimum of approximately 76% of my jokes)
- Witty
- Enjoys some sort of sports / physical activity
- Gets along with most of my friends / family
- NOT easily jealous
- Doesn't have 'issues' :)
- Good life experiences
- NOT easy (i.e. hard to get)
There's so much to say about this guy, that I think I'm gonna pass. It's just too easy. Suffice to say, that unless something life-altering happens in the next few years . . . he's fucked. He'll wind up waking up in the morning every day, wondering what is so wrong with the rest of the world, crying at the injustice of everyone being so unlike him.
Ian's IDEAL Girl:
Physical Appearance: (Yes, I'm relatively superficial...don't even try it. You know you are too!)
- Hair Color: Doesn't matter (not something crazy like pink though ;))
- Eyes: Doesn't matter as long as they're nice
- Body Type (based on the Lemontonic options): Slim, Fit or *Average
- Ethnicity: Doesn't matter
- Height: 5' 1'' - 5' 9''
- Clothes Style: Casual
- Lung Size: A - C
- Nice smile / laugh
- Nice voice (not obnoxious)
- Cear complexion / skin
*Average: If you consider yourself somewhat overweight, I have established 3 categories for that. They are : "Chubby", "Chunky" and "FAT". Chubby is perfectly fine if you're cute...Chunky means you might be pushing it...and FAT means you probably outweigh me by about 40-50Lbs and you should find a treadmill. Basically, on a scale of 1-10 (Physical appearance), I would go for girls who are anywhere from 5 to 9. If you're a 5 you would have to fill 99% of the personality pre-requisites (see below).
Physical Looks Ratings Scale:
10 - Perfect (I have yet to meet this girl)
9 - VERY good looking
8 - Good looking
7 - Somewhat good looking
6 - Average
5 - OK at best
4 - NOT Good looking
3 - UGLY
2 - Looking at you makes some people sick
1 - You shouldn't be going outside (I have yet to see this too!)
Now to the tricky part- Personality Requirements / Emotional Intelligence / Habits (Not necessarily in order):
- Religion: Christian (i.e. you have to believe in SOMETHING...what happens when you die?)
- Smoking: NEVER. (Visualize making out with an ashtray! :) )
- Drinking: Sometimes. (i.e. everything in moderation :))
- Ambitious
- Intelligent / Educated (the whole intelligence vs. education will be explained in a future entry)
- Can think for herself (i.e. not afraid to disagree with me!) (there's limits to this of course...)
- Tactful
- Strong (emotionally not necessarily physically ;) )
- Good listener (cuz I talk A LOT!)
- Honest
- Culturally / Socially aware
- Adventurous / Likes to travel
- Musical (preferable if you can play an instrument or sing, but at the VERY LEAST appreciate music)
- Likes to help people
- Likes to have a good time but can also stay in and 'chill'
- Good sense of humour (i.e. you should laugh at a minimum of approximately 76% of my jokes)
- Witty
- Enjoys some sort of sports / physical activity
- Gets along with most of my friends / family
- NOT easily jealous
- Doesn't have 'issues' :)
- Good life experiences
- NOT easy (i.e. hard to get)
There's so much to say about this guy, that I think I'm gonna pass. It's just too easy. Suffice to say, that unless something life-altering happens in the next few years . . . he's fucked. He'll wind up waking up in the morning every day, wondering what is so wrong with the rest of the world, crying at the injustice of everyone being so unlike him.
3rd Planet
A 3rd had just been made and we were swimming in the water,
didn't know then, was it a son was it a daughter?
When it occurred to me that the animals are swimming
around in the water
in the oceans in our bodies
and another had been found
another ocean on the planet
given that our blood is just like the Atlantic.
And how.
didn't know then, was it a son was it a daughter?
When it occurred to me that the animals are swimming
around in the water
in the oceans in our bodies
and another had been found
another ocean on the planet
given that our blood is just like the Atlantic.
And how.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Love Stinks, Love Stinks, Love Stinks
There may be more annoying sights, but right now I'm convinced that the most annoying sight to see is two people flirting.
I'm in this "situation" now, in which I've got to watch two people flirt on an almost daily basis, and it's killing me. Seriously, I'm at the end of my rope. It's not a matter of "if". It's a matter of when I will stand up and say:
"Why don't you two just sleep together? For Christ's sake. Everybody knows you both want it. Oh, sure, she's got a long-time boyfriend. Well, I wonder what the boyfriend would think of her spending all that time at your desk when she's supposed to be at her own desk? No, no, no. Don't you try to tell me there's a reason to be at his desk. I've heard your conversations. You think I can't hear? I sit right next to you! How could you think I wouldn't hear? That's not "studying" or "training" or anything other than flirting. Admit it. You both want each other. What's so difficult about that? Just dump the boyfriend and get a motel room.
But for the sake of sanity, stop. Stop the sitting over there in your seat, leaning toward him, but not really looking at him. Stop all the laughing at what is not funny. Stop the lilting voices, the secret whispers, the showing off. Stop the facade. Stop the madness.
Why is it so hard for people in their 20s? You want to have sex, you know you both do. Just do it. Why does there have to be all that excess? It's unnatural. It's unnecessary. It's annoying. Why can't it be as simple as "meet, like each other, sex"? Huh? Oh, don't give me that nonsense. There are condoms. Buy some. They are there to be used. They come in many sizes, styles, and colors. So don't give me that STD business. And don't give me that line about feelings. All I feel is fucking annoyed at you two feeling horny but too embarrassed to do anything about it so you just continue to sit by each other, feeding the "canister of horny". And you know what's going to happen if you keep filling that canister and do nothing about it? Do you know? Do I have to spell it out for you?
You're going to burst. It's going to be big, loud, messy, disgusting, and it's going to get everywhere. And, being that I sit close by, I don't think I can take that. So please. Get a motel room. Buy a condom. Have sex. Put the rest of us out of our misery."
I'm in this "situation" now, in which I've got to watch two people flirt on an almost daily basis, and it's killing me. Seriously, I'm at the end of my rope. It's not a matter of "if". It's a matter of when I will stand up and say:
"Why don't you two just sleep together? For Christ's sake. Everybody knows you both want it. Oh, sure, she's got a long-time boyfriend. Well, I wonder what the boyfriend would think of her spending all that time at your desk when she's supposed to be at her own desk? No, no, no. Don't you try to tell me there's a reason to be at his desk. I've heard your conversations. You think I can't hear? I sit right next to you! How could you think I wouldn't hear? That's not "studying" or "training" or anything other than flirting. Admit it. You both want each other. What's so difficult about that? Just dump the boyfriend and get a motel room.
But for the sake of sanity, stop. Stop the sitting over there in your seat, leaning toward him, but not really looking at him. Stop all the laughing at what is not funny. Stop the lilting voices, the secret whispers, the showing off. Stop the facade. Stop the madness.
Why is it so hard for people in their 20s? You want to have sex, you know you both do. Just do it. Why does there have to be all that excess? It's unnatural. It's unnecessary. It's annoying. Why can't it be as simple as "meet, like each other, sex"? Huh? Oh, don't give me that nonsense. There are condoms. Buy some. They are there to be used. They come in many sizes, styles, and colors. So don't give me that STD business. And don't give me that line about feelings. All I feel is fucking annoyed at you two feeling horny but too embarrassed to do anything about it so you just continue to sit by each other, feeding the "canister of horny". And you know what's going to happen if you keep filling that canister and do nothing about it? Do you know? Do I have to spell it out for you?
You're going to burst. It's going to be big, loud, messy, disgusting, and it's going to get everywhere. And, being that I sit close by, I don't think I can take that. So please. Get a motel room. Buy a condom. Have sex. Put the rest of us out of our misery."
So I'm Sitting Here With My Grilled Cheese and Tomato Soup . . .
. . . when I hear a dog going absolutely apeshit outside, barking at something. I then hear the owner pipe in: "Quiet! Quiet, you! Quiet!" The dog's still growling and barking, and for sitting up in my third floor window, it's quite loud.
Loud enough to wake up Ranger, who's so afraid of other dogs that he has this irrational, violent reaction to most any dog alive. So he hears this, and all the sudden, his ears go up and his eyes narrow. The faintest note of a growl builds in him . . . and bam! He jumps up, runs across the attic to my window, stands his front two paws on the ledge, and looks down to the sidewalk. He starts huffing and puffing like he always does when he gets nervous and threatened. He bares his teeth, opening his mouth -- I can tell he's about to let out the most ferocious bark ever heard when--
"Buuup."
Apparently the dog treat I just gave him is digesting nicely. He closes his mouth, sort of shrugs his shoulders, hops his paws off the window sill, and lays back down.
"Way to tell him, Range."
Loud enough to wake up Ranger, who's so afraid of other dogs that he has this irrational, violent reaction to most any dog alive. So he hears this, and all the sudden, his ears go up and his eyes narrow. The faintest note of a growl builds in him . . . and bam! He jumps up, runs across the attic to my window, stands his front two paws on the ledge, and looks down to the sidewalk. He starts huffing and puffing like he always does when he gets nervous and threatened. He bares his teeth, opening his mouth -- I can tell he's about to let out the most ferocious bark ever heard when--
"Buuup."
Apparently the dog treat I just gave him is digesting nicely. He closes his mouth, sort of shrugs his shoulders, hops his paws off the window sill, and lays back down.
"Way to tell him, Range."
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Potential Subsides into Traffic Cones
They've got this tremendous plot of land on downtown Milwaukee's north side, west of the Milwaukee River. And they could do so much with this land, but no one's stepped forward with any ideas. Already, it's clear that it will become "apartments and retail", not to mention some high-priced condominiums -- because what's new urban life without some more high-priced condos and a few chain stores?
I drive by it every day to work, and right now it's just a plot of open cement, an unfinished bridge, and a huge pile of gravel. Every day I wait at the stoplight as other cars navigate around this mess. And I can't help thinking one of us in these cars may have a better idea than the crew one mile southeast, in city hall.
I drive by it every day to work, and right now it's just a plot of open cement, an unfinished bridge, and a huge pile of gravel. Every day I wait at the stoplight as other cars navigate around this mess. And I can't help thinking one of us in these cars may have a better idea than the crew one mile southeast, in city hall.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Stoplight to the Lake
He drives home on the tree-lined road that ends at the lake, a stop light forcing him left or right. But before he reaches its red glow reflecting against the rippling water, he passes the bums and hookers on the corner, waiting for the bus, looking at him like he's lucky.
His mother told him this street used to have trees so tall that they touched each other over the center of the road. Looking up each night, he sees these new trees are growing up, growing close. In just a few short years, they will connect. But for now, he is covered by the thickness of the dark, starless sky above and the deep, airless voice below.
His mother told him this street used to have trees so tall that they touched each other over the center of the road. Looking up each night, he sees these new trees are growing up, growing close. In just a few short years, they will connect. But for now, he is covered by the thickness of the dark, starless sky above and the deep, airless voice below.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Septembers
Septembers were for so long, the start of the year. But now I think education's beyond me. I had two years off after graduating. In no way have I ever been glad to be done. There's always more to learn, especially in English and philosophy. But now there's so much to do. There's a job, and a reason to be there. A book, and a reason to write it.
But after six years, it still feels wrong not to be thinking about a team, a schedule, and the next day's run. Even though I'm not there now, my body can remember that feeling of readiness that lasted from August through October.
But after six years, it still feels wrong not to be thinking about a team, a schedule, and the next day's run. Even though I'm not there now, my body can remember that feeling of readiness that lasted from August through October.
On Brevity
I like Blogger. I really do. And while I feel a bit ashamed for ripping it . . . I'm still going to rip it. Because today they posted one of their usual help articles. This one was on how to promote one's web log. And that's great, really. In fact, before I get into the problem, let's just celebrate what a wonderful service this company provides -- for absolutely free (even though a plurality would probably be willing to pay a small fee for their web logs). Amazing.
OK, enough celebrating.
Within the article, which mainly offered some helpful technical tips on how to get your web log out there, they also offered some tips on writing. Here's the one that caught my disfancy:
Keep your posts and paragraphs short. Note the brevity of the aforementioned post. People will come back daily to read your fresh new work but spare them the one thousand word diatribes. Strive for succinct posts that pump pertinent new information into the blogosphere and move on. Keep it short and sweet so visitors can pop in, read up, and click on. Think of youblog as a cumulative effect. This doesn't mean you should never practice some long form writing now and then, it's just something to keep in mind.
This is my only internet-wide complaint regarding web logs. Some can be great, some can suck, but more and more often writers' posts are short. And that's great: short and to the point is often all that is required. But for Blogger to promote this trend is to say that anything worth saying must be said quickly. I guess it's because I've read enough sites that hit the exact same format: short post, self-deprecating humor, done.
Shying away from a long post tells the audience you're afraid to write anything longer than the hit-and-run. It reminds me of a creative writing class, in which one kid could only write ironic, pop-culture-baiting humor. He was there for the laughs, nothing more. But after a while, it became predictable.
If a long post sucks, then the long post sucks. That's why there's a sidebar full of options to click to. What kills me about this is it's not publishing. It's the internet. Yes, I write to write for an audience. But this is a non-paying, tiny, anonymous audience. If I feel like writing against the grain, about something I don't even want to bother to explain to the audience, I should be able to do that, and the audience should have no further expectation. Come back another day. And if I don't win you over on that day, maybe I'll lose a reader. But maybe, just maybe, the writing will work for a post that's actually longer than a paragraph. Maybe the audience is sophisticated enough to make it that far.
OK, enough celebrating.
Within the article, which mainly offered some helpful technical tips on how to get your web log out there, they also offered some tips on writing. Here's the one that caught my disfancy:
Keep your posts and paragraphs short. Note the brevity of the aforementioned post. People will come back daily to read your fresh new work but spare them the one thousand word diatribes. Strive for succinct posts that pump pertinent new information into the blogosphere and move on. Keep it short and sweet so visitors can pop in, read up, and click on. Think of you
This is my only internet-wide complaint regarding web logs. Some can be great, some can suck, but more and more often writers' posts are short. And that's great: short and to the point is often all that is required. But for Blogger to promote this trend is to say that anything worth saying must be said quickly. I guess it's because I've read enough sites that hit the exact same format: short post, self-deprecating humor, done.
Shying away from a long post tells the audience you're afraid to write anything longer than the hit-and-run. It reminds me of a creative writing class, in which one kid could only write ironic, pop-culture-baiting humor. He was there for the laughs, nothing more. But after a while, it became predictable.
If a long post sucks, then the long post sucks. That's why there's a sidebar full of options to click to. What kills me about this is it's not publishing. It's the internet. Yes, I write to write for an audience. But this is a non-paying, tiny, anonymous audience. If I feel like writing against the grain, about something I don't even want to bother to explain to the audience, I should be able to do that, and the audience should have no further expectation. Come back another day. And if I don't win you over on that day, maybe I'll lose a reader. But maybe, just maybe, the writing will work for a post that's actually longer than a paragraph. Maybe the audience is sophisticated enough to make it that far.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
One step forward, one step back.
Anyone associated with US distance running could not have been disappointed by the showings this year at Athens. It seems just a few years ago, people were saying that the US would never win another medal in the marathon. The sport was dominated by Africans who organized the athletes, trained harder, and prioritized the event. I would have been among these voices. Some people would even go so far as to claim . . . the Africans have some mysterious biological advantage over the US. Greater lung capacity? Training in intense heat? I never went quite so far. But all this is so much rubbish after Athens.
It was a sight to remember to see the pace pick up, and watch only three men chase the leader (Vanderlei de Lima): Stefano Baldini, the eventual winner; Paul Tergat, the world record-holder; and unheralded US runner Meb Keflezighi.
Funny, you say, that name doesn't sound American. Correct: Keflezighi emigrated as a kid to the US. So one would think the argument would still hold: the US can't get it done unless an African emigrates here. I still disagree, and my only point of proof is Alan Culpepper. Culpepper, who entered the race in less than ideal condition, ran a smart race on a tough course in warm weather. He finished 12th, less than 45 seconds off Tergat. I think people in the know would have a hard time finding anyone who predicted a US born and bred runner would come so close to a legendary runner like Tergat on such a course.
To be fair, Tergat hasn't had a great year. But that doesn't cover the fact that two US runnes ran the first decent international marathon in many years. And all this back-and-forth seems to discount that Keflezighi is an American citizen. He lives and trains here. If people can drop the idiotic biological argument, they'd realize what a statement his marathon was.
When asked after the race, if the US finish was a surprise, Culpepper took relish in saying "No." Damn right, "No." The US wasn't hopelessly behind the rest of the world for any other reason than hard work. Culpepper knows that, and he knows how hard he worked to finish where he did.
This is not to say that all is suddenly right with US distance running. For an example of what is wrong with our approach to distance running, simply turn to the third US marathon entrant, Dan Browne. Browne, who qualified in both the 10K and marathon, decided to run both races. Keflezighi also qualified for each race; he declined running the 10K. How did Browne run? Hard to tell, as the camera never made it that far back the pack. You could see him come in, though. He stopped several times before jogging into the stadium. Seems that 10K (in which he finished 12th) weighed on his legs. So as positive a marathon as the US had, take a look runners, coaches, viewers-- the current symbol of US distance running selfishness, Dan Browne. When asked if he regretted doubling, Browne, of course, said "No." Rather than let someone else actually make an impact, he balanced himself on the shaky claim that he "earned it."
It's better to burn out than fade away, and Browne faded from the moment he qualified, the moment he "earned" anything.
Beyond the races, the US commenting could use an entire overhaul. (Although one must appreciate NBC for giving us pseudo-live coverage.) During the women's race, the commentators actually stopped speaking for a minute, "to pay homage to the hill" the runners were covering. Idiocy. During the men's marathon, one of the yapping idiots said, "With that wind in their faces, they had a nice breeze. Now that the course has shifted, the wind is at their backs, which is going to make things warm for the runners. We may see the pace slow." I don't think I need to waste web space explaining what a tailwind does for a runner. Suffice to simply state that the pace soon dropped.
Beyond that, the announcers seemed genuinely shocked, during the women's marathon, when Deena Kastor, who ran an even race, moved into third. "She took the conservative approach," one of the yapping idiots, who must have never attempted this approach, said. There was all this blather about running her own race and "hoping" the other runners would come back. Funny, "hope" hasn't been awarded the bronze before . . .
The announcers monumentally misrepresented the men's race. The coverage made it seem as if the bizarre attack on Lima caused him to lose the race. While what happened was inexcusable and shocking, they should have been reporting on how Baldini and Keflezighi were already seriously gaining on Lima. While they should lock that protestor up and force him to run a marathon every day around the prison yard, it was really only a matter of time before Lima would be caught. You wouldn't have known it from the coverage.
But to me, the worst point of the television coverage came at the very end of the men's race. Baldini and Keflezighi had passed Lima, and Baldini had made a move on Keflezighi, knowing he didn't want a sprint to the finish. With just a couple miles to go, the clock showed Keflezighi had picked up his pursuit of Baldini with a 4:29 mile. They never once commented on how hard Keflezighi was going. Moreover, they didn't even mention that Baldini was matching that pace. As hard as Keflezighi could go, Baldini simply would not be denied. What did they talk about? Basically, they lamented the attack on Lima, and they celebrated the fact that an American was in the top three. For all a random viewer could tell, the American had won. "That Italian up there, oh, he was just the fastest."
Mebrahtom KEFLEZIGHI (USA)- silver medalist, on winning silver:
"I came to do what I did. I had a strategy of being up front because there are a lot of good guys out there. I got there and I did it."
On his break:
"I felt good after one hour, 10 minutes, so I thought why not me, why not me?"
On the competition:
"I was delighted to get the silver. Finally my hard work paid off. It was my goal for the whole year. It was a great race".
Stefano BALDINI (ITA) - Gold medalist, on any difficulties faced out on the course:
"The problem is the weather, not the course. I like this kind of uphill and downhill course. It suits me."
On if he thinks he would have won even if LIMA hadn't been attacked:
"Yes. I believe I would have won anyway. I would have caught him 1km later, but I would have caught him up. When the incident happened, I was running at a rhythm 20 seconds faster than he was".
On if he objects to the thought that LIMA should receive a second gold medal:
"This is a problem for the organizing committee and not me. I ran my race".
It was a sight to remember to see the pace pick up, and watch only three men chase the leader (Vanderlei de Lima): Stefano Baldini, the eventual winner; Paul Tergat, the world record-holder; and unheralded US runner Meb Keflezighi.
Funny, you say, that name doesn't sound American. Correct: Keflezighi emigrated as a kid to the US. So one would think the argument would still hold: the US can't get it done unless an African emigrates here. I still disagree, and my only point of proof is Alan Culpepper. Culpepper, who entered the race in less than ideal condition, ran a smart race on a tough course in warm weather. He finished 12th, less than 45 seconds off Tergat. I think people in the know would have a hard time finding anyone who predicted a US born and bred runner would come so close to a legendary runner like Tergat on such a course.
To be fair, Tergat hasn't had a great year. But that doesn't cover the fact that two US runnes ran the first decent international marathon in many years. And all this back-and-forth seems to discount that Keflezighi is an American citizen. He lives and trains here. If people can drop the idiotic biological argument, they'd realize what a statement his marathon was.
When asked after the race, if the US finish was a surprise, Culpepper took relish in saying "No." Damn right, "No." The US wasn't hopelessly behind the rest of the world for any other reason than hard work. Culpepper knows that, and he knows how hard he worked to finish where he did.
This is not to say that all is suddenly right with US distance running. For an example of what is wrong with our approach to distance running, simply turn to the third US marathon entrant, Dan Browne. Browne, who qualified in both the 10K and marathon, decided to run both races. Keflezighi also qualified for each race; he declined running the 10K. How did Browne run? Hard to tell, as the camera never made it that far back the pack. You could see him come in, though. He stopped several times before jogging into the stadium. Seems that 10K (in which he finished 12th) weighed on his legs. So as positive a marathon as the US had, take a look runners, coaches, viewers-- the current symbol of US distance running selfishness, Dan Browne. When asked if he regretted doubling, Browne, of course, said "No." Rather than let someone else actually make an impact, he balanced himself on the shaky claim that he "earned it."
It's better to burn out than fade away, and Browne faded from the moment he qualified, the moment he "earned" anything.
Beyond the races, the US commenting could use an entire overhaul. (Although one must appreciate NBC for giving us pseudo-live coverage.) During the women's race, the commentators actually stopped speaking for a minute, "to pay homage to the hill" the runners were covering. Idiocy. During the men's marathon, one of the yapping idiots said, "With that wind in their faces, they had a nice breeze. Now that the course has shifted, the wind is at their backs, which is going to make things warm for the runners. We may see the pace slow." I don't think I need to waste web space explaining what a tailwind does for a runner. Suffice to simply state that the pace soon dropped.
Beyond that, the announcers seemed genuinely shocked, during the women's marathon, when Deena Kastor, who ran an even race, moved into third. "She took the conservative approach," one of the yapping idiots, who must have never attempted this approach, said. There was all this blather about running her own race and "hoping" the other runners would come back. Funny, "hope" hasn't been awarded the bronze before . . .
The announcers monumentally misrepresented the men's race. The coverage made it seem as if the bizarre attack on Lima caused him to lose the race. While what happened was inexcusable and shocking, they should have been reporting on how Baldini and Keflezighi were already seriously gaining on Lima. While they should lock that protestor up and force him to run a marathon every day around the prison yard, it was really only a matter of time before Lima would be caught. You wouldn't have known it from the coverage.
But to me, the worst point of the television coverage came at the very end of the men's race. Baldini and Keflezighi had passed Lima, and Baldini had made a move on Keflezighi, knowing he didn't want a sprint to the finish. With just a couple miles to go, the clock showed Keflezighi had picked up his pursuit of Baldini with a 4:29 mile. They never once commented on how hard Keflezighi was going. Moreover, they didn't even mention that Baldini was matching that pace. As hard as Keflezighi could go, Baldini simply would not be denied. What did they talk about? Basically, they lamented the attack on Lima, and they celebrated the fact that an American was in the top three. For all a random viewer could tell, the American had won. "That Italian up there, oh, he was just the fastest."
Mebrahtom KEFLEZIGHI (USA)- silver medalist, on winning silver:
"I came to do what I did. I had a strategy of being up front because there are a lot of good guys out there. I got there and I did it."
On his break:
"I felt good after one hour, 10 minutes, so I thought why not me, why not me?"
On the competition:
"I was delighted to get the silver. Finally my hard work paid off. It was my goal for the whole year. It was a great race".
Stefano BALDINI (ITA) - Gold medalist, on any difficulties faced out on the course:
"The problem is the weather, not the course. I like this kind of uphill and downhill course. It suits me."
On if he thinks he would have won even if LIMA hadn't been attacked:
"Yes. I believe I would have won anyway. I would have caught him 1km later, but I would have caught him up. When the incident happened, I was running at a rhythm 20 seconds faster than he was".
On if he objects to the thought that LIMA should receive a second gold medal:
"This is a problem for the organizing committee and not me. I ran my race".
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
On "Magical"
The thing about having six years of liberal arts experience, is just that: all that (monetarily useless) experience. The knowledge that never makes it to the resume or daily phone call. Useless, you say? Ah, but what of self-definition?
Therefore . . . picture it! Spring, 2003: it's a mucky day outside, but inside the small room of one professor and 14 students, all attention is focused on a poem (as this was a poetry lab). We were discussing a modern poem. When I state "discuss", I mean we moved around the room in a circle, each classmate giving his or her opinion on what worked and what didn't work in the poem we just read.
We were at Jenna. Jenna had arrived late that day, as usual. Her dyed-black hair was especially strung-out. Her sleeve cuffs were pulled especially low around her hands. Her thin face of prominently high cheekbones was especially tortured that day. And when you imagine Jenna don't imagine her as Jenna. Imagine her as Jen-aaaah. Speak it with a Billy Idol sneer.
She hadn't spoken yet, so the professor prompted her: "Jenna, your thoughts?"
Jenna tensed up and held both her hands out in front of her, as if she was walking in the dark. "Ummmmmm." She paused, holding her head up high, but still focusing her eyes down on the page, considering. Finally, her face sank. When her voice came, it was a strangled gargle.
"It's just really magical."
She didn't speak as much as she cried-spoke. Think of it as if she was speaking in the voice of an REM ballad. Every word trembled, like she was on the verge of not just tears, but bawling, snot-running sobs of passionate sadness. "It's just really magical," she repeated in a whisper, shaking her head, her eyes on the table, as they always were. They were on the table, yes -- but her mind was transfixed on this magical, tortured world of hers.
Me? I sat on the other side of the table, on the far end. I bit the insides of my mouth -- hard -- to stifle a laugh. Knowing it was coming anyway, I faked a loud cough. Then I looked up to check everyone else's reaction to Jenna's assessment: nothing. Stoned silence. People just focused in on the text like nothing just happened. The professor cleared her voice.
"What makes the poem so magical, Jenna?"
"What?" I thought. "You're encouraging this?"
On the other end of the table, tears had come to Jenna's eyes. "Just . . . everything!"
Looking at the professor, I thought, "No way. No way you accept that as an intellectual addition to the discussion. Everyone else brought something interesting or important to the table." Everyone else had spoken for three to five minutes about the poem. Jenna? Three to five words.
"Thank you for your contribution, Jenna."
"Mkay," Jenna sobbed.
Magical. The poem was magical. I still don't know how or why it was magical. We never really got that far that day (although I was dangerously tempted to ask Jenna if the poem could sprout wings and fly around the room). Instead, the professor said:
"Let's make that our assignment for next time. Let's have everyone bring in a poem that they find has magical qualities."
At that point, one can only really come to one conclusion, and what I reached was: I'm 25 years old, I'm in a 400-level poetry class, and I am going to have to search for my magical poem. This is what it's come to.
Therefore . . . picture it! Spring, 2003: it's a mucky day outside, but inside the small room of one professor and 14 students, all attention is focused on a poem (as this was a poetry lab). We were discussing a modern poem. When I state "discuss", I mean we moved around the room in a circle, each classmate giving his or her opinion on what worked and what didn't work in the poem we just read.
We were at Jenna. Jenna had arrived late that day, as usual. Her dyed-black hair was especially strung-out. Her sleeve cuffs were pulled especially low around her hands. Her thin face of prominently high cheekbones was especially tortured that day. And when you imagine Jenna don't imagine her as Jenna. Imagine her as Jen-aaaah. Speak it with a Billy Idol sneer.
She hadn't spoken yet, so the professor prompted her: "Jenna, your thoughts?"
Jenna tensed up and held both her hands out in front of her, as if she was walking in the dark. "Ummmmmm." She paused, holding her head up high, but still focusing her eyes down on the page, considering. Finally, her face sank. When her voice came, it was a strangled gargle.
"It's just really magical."
She didn't speak as much as she cried-spoke. Think of it as if she was speaking in the voice of an REM ballad. Every word trembled, like she was on the verge of not just tears, but bawling, snot-running sobs of passionate sadness. "It's just really magical," she repeated in a whisper, shaking her head, her eyes on the table, as they always were. They were on the table, yes -- but her mind was transfixed on this magical, tortured world of hers.
Me? I sat on the other side of the table, on the far end. I bit the insides of my mouth -- hard -- to stifle a laugh. Knowing it was coming anyway, I faked a loud cough. Then I looked up to check everyone else's reaction to Jenna's assessment: nothing. Stoned silence. People just focused in on the text like nothing just happened. The professor cleared her voice.
"What makes the poem so magical, Jenna?"
"What?" I thought. "You're encouraging this?"
On the other end of the table, tears had come to Jenna's eyes. "Just . . . everything!"
Looking at the professor, I thought, "No way. No way you accept that as an intellectual addition to the discussion. Everyone else brought something interesting or important to the table." Everyone else had spoken for three to five minutes about the poem. Jenna? Three to five words.
"Thank you for your contribution, Jenna."
"Mkay," Jenna sobbed.
Magical. The poem was magical. I still don't know how or why it was magical. We never really got that far that day (although I was dangerously tempted to ask Jenna if the poem could sprout wings and fly around the room). Instead, the professor said:
"Let's make that our assignment for next time. Let's have everyone bring in a poem that they find has magical qualities."
At that point, one can only really come to one conclusion, and what I reached was: I'm 25 years old, I'm in a 400-level poetry class, and I am going to have to search for my magical poem. This is what it's come to.
