In my psychology class we looked at some recent studies on how the pandemic has changed people. Apparently there’s a new breed of post-pandemic man. This new strain is more grown up, well-rounded and getting more sleep. They’ve experienced intellectual growth in lock-down, they’ve taken up hobbies and gained in self confidence. It seems they’re looking less for *** and more for long-term stability and partnership in relationships.

I’m hoping they’ll be easy to identify - maybe they’ll wear those old punk DEVO hats or Billy Porter dresses to set themselves apart. I really want to see one of these new overlords. I hope they’re not skittish.

Kiss me, cuddle me
arouse me, befuddle me
time albates with seduction
enkindle, caress, slowly undress,
resist all other disruptions.

“I’m going to become a nun,” I announce to no one in particular between Sprite sips.

“You’re Catholic, I suppose you could,” Lisa says, with a mouth half full of pizza.

“Why do socially distant guys look extra attractive?” I ask dazedly.

I reach my hand out slowly - towards a sweaty, chiseled, guy entering the pizza place, who looks like he’s just coming from the gym - like someone lost in the desert reaches for a mirage of water.

“No!” Lisa says, protectively lowering my arm “you’ll just have to put him back.”

I sigh. “I want to do something interesting or shameless.” I say.

“Don’t we ALL.” Lisa agrees, knowing all we have ahead is 4 hours of reading.

A wall of Jacobean era lattice-windows
line my dorm room - my private eyes.

How many freshmen have watched
the gilt harvest moon from this seat?

I keep them open, for cool breezes,
and the comforting the sounds of life,
in overworked, needy moments.

We shelter secrets, holding them close
and encrypted. Hidden truths,
like submerged rocks that create
snapping undercurrents and choppy,
white-capped rapids for navigating affinities.

Here at Yale University we’re encouraged to attend these campus “get togethers” - to meet other students and broaden our circles. Some are about interesting subjects like politics or science and sometimes you get to meet famous people.

Others are concerned with less interesting subjects - like the bewildering aspects of philosophy: “Would you **** baby ****** if you had the chance - and if so - could you do it with a gun? Shoot a baby to stop world war two? What if you didn’t HAVE a gun, could you find it in yourself to use your bare hands?”

“Well,” I say, giving it some serious consideration - just to show that I’m as philosophical as the next girl - “if I had BEAR hands, couldn’t I claw him to death?”

The storm is over - no, not last week’s nor’easter - midterms. I hope you survived.

New England seems to be one, big, storm-of-the-month club. Campus is 5 minutes from Long Island Sound and I like to go watch the mesmerizing roil of the ocean when a storm’s rolling in.

The choppy hazel undulations, opaque as enamel, seem to coil-up - then suddenly slap the shoreline breakers as if testing their resolve. The wind whipped salt-water patterns, like folds of linen. The wind and salt water mist in your face feels as sharp and violent as glass shards.

The sun occasionally pierces the clouds like a knife strike only to be healed in moments. The whole scene is beautiful, immense and uncontrollable - like eating cake by the ocean. (song reference).